As Yet Untitled
by ellbtvsvm
Summary: REPOSTED. Ryan's life fell apart after Sharpay was murdered. His friends pretend not to know him, and those who don't ignore him make a point of torturing him. But Ryan's determined to get his life back, no matter what it takes.
1. We Used to be Friends

**THIS CHAPTER IS A REPOST. READ THE NOTICE ON THE THIRD CHAPTER FOR FURTHER EXPLANATION. **

_June 3__rd__, 2006 _

Officer Daniel Jones sat in his squad car, hunched tiredly over the steering wheel; he yawned, drowning out the humming of the radio as orders were given. Although he had an ear out in case anything important came up, he sincerely doubted anything would, since he had been sitting here for about three---or four---hours. Sighing, he straightened up and stretched, glancing hopefully at the clock; it blinked 9:23 at him. Another half hour and he would be able to officially call it another crimeless night in his neck of the woods.

Not that it was surprising; this community was practically bleach-white in terms of purity. The worst that had happened here was theft, and even that had been a totally unarmed and nonviolent affair. It was like they were purposefully trying to be as dull as possible.

He rolled his windows down; the air was stifling inside his tiny car, which was littered with various wrappings from his daily sustenance; he breathed a sigh of relief as warm summer air blew into the car. Just as he was about to remove his seatbelt and settle down, a crackling from the radio caught his attention;

"We have a disturbance on Linwood Road; I repeat, a disturbance on 187 Linwood Road. All officers in proximity please proceed to the area."

Picking up his radio, his hand shaking a little from newfound adrenaline, he muttered. "This is Officer Jones confirming my location, approximately 20 feet from Linwood Road; I'm going in. Requesting backup."

And he sped off, energy building inside him as he thought of what could be waiting for him.

187 Linwood was, like all the other houses on that street, a marvelous three-story house, with a four-car garage and a driveway wide enough to station at least three Hummers.

Lights seemed to be on everywhere in the house; knocking on the door, he waited a few moments before a distressed looking maid granted him entrance; she seemed to be muttering prayers under her breath in another language, probably Spanish.

"Come," she said, turning and making her way down the hall. He followed her with a slightly quickened pace when he saw the distress that seemed to be reigning in the household; he saw no one but another few servants, who all seemed to be on the verge of a breakdown; one slightly older one was weeping into a handkerchief.

The maid turned to the left around the middle of the hallway, into a spacious dining room; but this too was empty, and she kept going to enter a large kitchen, off of which there was a sliding door leading into a yard, which was wide open---she stopped at the door, shaking her head and bringing her hands to her face. Thinking this must be the scene of the distress, Daniel walked through the door and immediately froze when he saw what was before him.

A wealthy looking man was holding his sobbing wife, while a teenaged boy looked on with tears in his eyes; Daniel heard occasional sobs from him; all three of them were looking at the same place. A young, blonde girl was lying on the ground beside the family's large pool. Her eyes were lifeless; her head was bleeding from a gash that had most likely been what had killed her.

Time snaked by quickly; in the time it had taken to call for backup, have them arrive and have the coroner's office take the body away, it had already become almost midnight. The distraught family thanked the officers quietly for their work, especially Daniel, as he had been the first on the scene. But he hadn't known what to do; he had never dealt with a murder before, and the harshness of it all rendered him quite unable to do much but look on and try to help with small things in an attempt to ignore the fact that what he was dealing with was the loss of someone's life.

"I'm very sorry for your loss, Mr. and Mrs. Evans," Daniel said sympathetically. His words seemed to be a small comfort; Mrs. Evans managed to stand up on her own, wiping her eyes, while Mr. Evans simply hung his head, the very image of a man whose world had just come crashing down around him. The teenaged boy who---it seemed---was the girl's twin had disappeared sometime during the proceedings.

Ryan sat on his bed, staring at his clasped hands, trying not to look at anything in his room. Everything would remind him of Sharpay, even if it wasn't hers; there were his costumes from shows and some awards that he had managed to win on his own (which she had certainly been less than appreciative of), and pictures from their countless performances. So he kept his eyes firmly on his hands, blinking whenever the image seemed to be getting too blurry.

_September 7__th__, 2006 _

The moment Ryan got out of his car, he felt an overwhelming urge to get back inside and drive home. He knew his parents wouldn't mind; it was doubtful that they would even know. Unfortunately, he knew there was no chance of getting away with it at school, so he resignedly grabbed his bag and headed out of the parking lot towards East High School.

Everywhere he looked, he saw familiar faces, people who used to be part of his little circle of friends. But those people no longer cast a second glance at him and if they did, it was with scorn or disgust. He kept a stony demeanor, pretending not to notice or care, gripping the strap of his bag tighter as he walked into the building.

Standing in front of his locker, he stared at it, wondering what kind of surprise lay in wait when he was to open it. There was no strange smell coming from it, thankfully, so there would be no disgusting mess for him to clean up. But it could still be water, or…taking a deep breath, he cleansed himself of those thoughts; reaching out his hand, he dialed the combination and pulled the door open, taking a quick step back.

Nothing fell out. But there was a piece of paper inside, and Ryan knew what was going to be written on it before he picked it up.

_Welcome back, queer. _

_June 17__th__, 2006_

_**This was a mistake**__, Ryan thought as he made his way through the crowd. __**I should have just stayed away from here. **_

_ Shelly Pomroy's house was absolutely full to bursting. As Ryan edged his way through the dancing couples (and the ones doing…different…things), he saw, out of the corner of his eye, Troy Bolton. He was sitting down on a couch; there was a girl sprawled on his lap, a girl with light brown hair. While his attention was caught up with that, he felt something being shoved into his hand; looking down, he saw a cup of soda. Confused, he raised his head and looked around for the person who could have given this to him, but no one was in sight. Shrugging, he took a sip. _

_He didn't know who had handed him the drink, but later on he would wish bitterly that he did; apparently, the drink had been a basic rum, coke…and roofie. The rest of that evening was a blur; all that Ryan knew of it was that he had evidently made out with someone. A male someone. Perhaps several male someones; he didn't know. But the worst part was the morning after._

_June 18__th__, 2006_

_Sunlight streaming through the window was what had woken Ryan up. Opening his heavy-lidded eyes, he gradually took in his surroundings and realized that something was amiss; this was not his bedroom. He sat up, and found that not only was he in someone else's bed…the only article of clothing on him was his shirt, which was buttoned clumsily. As the reality of the situation set in, he bit back a sob, then dressed himself, and got out of the house as fast as he could. He practically ran, abandoning his car when he saw the graffiti that had been written on it._

Crumpling the note, Ryan threw it to the ground.

"I hope you're not thinking of leaving that there. That would be littering." A teasing voice said; startled, Ryan looked up. A small blonde girl smiled up at him, nodding toward the crumpled paper on the ground. Too stunned to move, he simply stood there as she picked it up herself, glancing at the visible writing. Wincing, she looked back at him. "I see why you crumpled it up now." She threw it towards a trash can about five feet away, giving herself a little cheer when it landed perfectly. She looked back towards him, giving him a smile, and then walked away. The sound of the bell ringing interrupted Ryan's stupor; his heart felt heavy as he realized that it was time for homeroom. _Wonderful; all the people who hate me in one room. And they say there's no God, _he thought dryly as he made his way down the hall.

Surely enough, the minute he walked into the room, it went momentarily silent; but then the conversation started up again, this time punctuated with glances at him. He was sure they were noticing how he wasn't wearing his usual eccentrically coordinated outfit, or whistling show tunes as he strutted into the room. Taking the only seat available (which was in the middle, as luck would have it) he dumped his bag on the ground and pulled his white hat lower over his eyes. It was one of the only ones he hadn't had the heart to throw away.

After Sharpay had died, Ryan had gone through his room and cleaned out everything, everything that could possibly have any connection to her or his old self. He thought, looking back, that it was just his dramatic way of dealing with things, fueled by mild hysteria; but whatever it was, gone were the old costumes he had saved; gone were the clothes he had bought because Sharpay had insisted. All the music he had been in the process of learning, he had crumpled up.

_Tearing through his closet, Ryan tossed out everything he could find; the shirts and pants and various other costume pieces and accessories he had tossed in there as keepsakes, old scripts and sheet music---he came across one script that he had written himself, that he had been halfway through when Sharpay died. He threw that one with unusual force, at the wall where it landed in a heap of other trash. _

_The doorknob rattled; Ryan uttered a flat, "Come in," and his mother entered, looking concerned. "Ryan, it's late. What are you still doing up?" She looked around, confused, at the things that lay all over the room._

_"Just doing some cleaning, Mom," he answered, sitting back on his heels. His mother knelt down and picked up a photo of him and Sharpay at last year's school musical, which had been knocked to the floor in the midst of Ryan's cleaning. She gave a brief, sad smile before looking at him._

_ "Are you sure you want to do this, Ryan?" She asked softly. He gave no answer; the question had made him hesitate, if only for a moment. His mother walked out of the room, closing the door quietly behind her. _

But now, Ryan felt as if the only thing he could have done was get rid of everything. The Ryan that used to be had died with Sharpay---she was the reason that that Ryan came into existence, the reason that he dressed as flashily as he could, and focused solely on the theatre. Sharpay had needed him to be that person, and he was. Now she was gone, and he wasn't going to bother keeping up appearances.

After all---he was no longer that boy.

A/N: I know I posted about three miles of notes in the beginning, but I have to plague you with more. Just letting anyone who was wondering about this know that in the next part, we'll learn more about Ryan's estrangement from the school, and be introduced to the new character who showed up in this chapter. I hope you decide to keep with this story; I'm getting some ideas for it already. ;-)


	2. Life Is So Not a Cabaret

A/N: Thanks for the reviews, guys. I'm not sure if anybody noticed, but I made a couple of mistakes in the last chapter: one, Officer Daniel Jones was written as Officer Daniels at one point in the chapter (how that escaped my proofreading I'll never know), and also I said this takes place after HSM 2. Which, as you may have realized, makes no sense. So pretend I never said that. :-P

I think this chapter will answer a few questions for you guys. Enjoy!

CHAPTER ONE

The bell rang to dismiss homeroom after what Ryan would describe as the longest ten minutes of his life. He stood up slowly, picking up his bag; he wasn't in any hurry to be the first one out. As the others rushed out around him, jostling him as if he weren't even there, he sighed tiredly, trudging after them.

English came first. It was the only subject he really liked; his theatre expe riences had had the side effect of improving his literary mind. Analyses and discussions used to be his favorite part of the class; it was the one part of him which Sharpay had no control over, although she was equally as talented in this area. Most of the time, though, she would let him talk. Whenever she felt he had made a mistake, she would scoff audibly and sometimes interrupt, as per her usual need to have everyone focused on her.

As the students filed in around him, he hid his head in his arms, closing his eyes; he felt himself drifting off to sleep when---

"Care to join us, Mr. Evans?" The teacher's firm voice startled him out of his trance. Lifting his head, he found that she was standing in front of her desk, looking pointedly at him. "Thank you. Now, as I was saying, this year we will be learning about various themes…" Once her attention was diverted again, Ryan laid his head back down.

Lunch didn't seem to come fast enough. He practically ran out of his fourth-period class, making his way toward the lunchroom. To his dismay, standing in front of the entrance to the cafeteria was---well, everyone he didn't want to see. The basketball team, which meant Troy and Chad and Zeke and Jason. He noticed that Gabriella, Taylor and Kelsi were absent from their usual place among the team---but he couldn't see them anywhere. Well, it was now or never---he marched onward, feeling as though he were about to walk into a minefield. Just when he was praying to slip by unnoticed, Chad's unmistakable tone reached his ears.

"Hey, Ry," he said, mockery apparent in his tone. "How was your summer?" Ryan knew it would be better to just not say anything, so he continued to walk through the jocks, all of whom were looking at him with amusement.

"Leave him alone, man." Ryan froze. At the sound of Troy's quiet protest, all eyes turned to him---Ryan took the opportunity to enter the room.

After acquiring the cafeteria's latest attempt at making food, he turned back to see that almost every table was populated by laughing, smiling friends, none of whom even looked at him as he walked by. He could see the table where Gabriella, Taylor and Kelsi were sitting; Gabriella saw him. They looked at each other for a moment or two---he thought he could see something like regret in her eyes---and then she turned back to her friends and kept on talking.

Trying to act like he hadn't even noticed her, he spotted an empty table and made his way toward it. His lunch looked even less appetizing when he looked at it up close---he stabbed at it idly, wondering if he'd really be better off not eating anything. He didn't think the risk of food poisoning was worth it.

Laughter reached his ears; the table a few feet away from his was populated with what was considered the school's royalty, the jocks, cheerleaders, and the wealthy kids who managed to get a good grip on the top rung of the social ladder. Among them was Dean, Sharpay's ex-boyfriend. He spotted Ryan and grinned at him, giving a mocking salute.

Dean had never liked Ryan, not even when he and Sharpay were dating. Of course, Ryan had never exactly been a big fan of his---he was rude, callous, and homophobic; but he was also the son of a wealthy man who owned a chain of hotels across the world, so Ryan's parents adored him---and it didn't hurt that Dean was an actor himself. He was good at pretending. Lowering his eyes, Ryan tried not to think about when he used to be allowed to sit at that table with him and Sharpay.

"_So, Dean, is that party on for this weekend?" One of his lackeys asked hopefully. Dean, his arm wrapped around Sharpay, smiled._

"_My parents are going to Connecticut for the weekend, so I'd say that the party is definitely on," he answered._

"_And our parents are going with yours," Sharpay said, gesturing to Ryan and herself, looking very pleased. Dean's expression mirrored hers, probably once he had registered what the lack of parents meant; they could get up to things that certainly wouldn't be condoned if the Evans' were home. _

_Ryan watched the conversation silently; although he knew that he would be going to the party with Sharpay, he had to dig his fork deeply into the cake he'd gotten for dessert to keep from stabbing Dean in the throat with it. Dean caught his eye and winked, a condescending smile on his face._

"Um, hello?" A voice brought Ryan out of his memory; he blinked and found that the girl from that morning was sitting in front of him, waving her hand in his face.

"What do you want?" He asked haughtily. She grinned at his tone, which was not the reaction he'd hoped to get at all. He couldn't help but feel slightly offended, but his guest didn't seem to notice at all.

"Well, I'd like a pony. And maybe a new pair of shoes." She said nonchalantly, opening her carton of milk.

"Who said you could sit here?" He persisted. She shrugged, taking a sip of her milk.

"I didn't know you needed an invite. Guess I'll just sit somewhere else." She placed her carton back on her tray and stood up. Ryan sighed.

"Wait. You don't have to go. You can sit here." Another wide grin. She sat back down, looking triumphant.

"I'm Sarah," she said, sticking out her hand. Ryan looked at it for a moment, before reaching out his own and shaking tentatively. She lowered her hand.

"I'm Ryan," he answered, although he was aware that she probably already knew that.

"So I hear." Ryan looked back down at his lunch.

"I take it you're not a big fan of East High?" She asked. Ryan looked up, startled by her forwardness. She looked perfectly earnest, blinking her blue eyes at him.

"Not really, no," he answered dryly, continuing to pick at his lunch.

"People seem pretty nice here. Better than my old school. I used to go to school in Arizona," she told him. Ryan nodded to show he was listening.

"Hey, can I ask you something?" Although he was tempted to say no, Ryan merely looked at her, adopting a wary expression. "I've seen a lot of bulletin boards in school about upcoming theater productions and stuff---do you know who to talk to if I want to join the stage crew?"

"Why would you think I'd know that?" He asked, trying to keep his voice from cracking. He kept his eyes on his food.

"I've seen a lot of pictures. You're in practically all of them," there was a silence after that which told Ryan that she was debating whether or not to mention the other person that was in all of those pictures. Thankfully, she decided against it. Well, if she had sense, she couldn't be that bad.

"Ms. Darbus is the head of the theatre department. Her room's close; I can take you there after school if you want," he said; it had taken a little effort to get the words out, and even more effort to quash the regret that came after them.

"Thanks a lot," Sarah said, sounding grateful. "I've been doing stage crew since, like, the seventh grade." She grinned at him.

"Really? That long?" He asked, pretending to be impressed. Sarah beamed at him. He gave her a small smile in return.

Sarah was already waiting outside his last class when the final bell rang; she smiled at him eagerly when he appeared. They made their way down the hall, and without even looking Ryan could tell they were getting a lot of stares.

"Going on the straight and narrow, huh, Ryan?" Chad grinned at his own joke, popping up from behind. Sarah looked on, wide-eyed. Ryan stopped, allowing Chad to pass in front of him. Chad eyed Sarah appreciatively; she merely looked at him, amused. Frowning, Chad continued on his way, discouraged by her lack of excitement at having been classified as 'hot' by one of the most popular jocks in school.

"Well, he was pleasant," Sarah said airily, breaking into a light jog to keep up with Ryan, who had increased his pace significantly.

Mrs. Darbus' room was locked; Ryan knew that meant she could only be in the auditorium. So he headed down there, almost forgetting that Sarah was trailing after him; he could hear her walking behind him, but she didn't say a word, not even when they changed their course so abruptly.

Sure enough, the drama teacher was standing on the stage, reveling in the glory of being back in her 'chapel of the arts', as she liked to put it. Ryan felt his resolve crumbling slowly as he walked into the auditorium, memories welling up that were proving themselves impossible to suppress. He swallowed, suddenly feeling as though there were a lump in his throat; gathering his wits, he walking down the center aisle to the stage, where Mrs. Darbus was too involved in her musings about this year's productions to notice him. He cleared his throat; startled, she glanced down at him.

"Oh, Ryan!" She paused for a moment, obviously unsure how to proceed. "What, um…did you need something?" She adjusted her glasses, glancing at Sarah.

"Actually, I'm just here to introduce you to Sarah." At the mention of her name, Sarah gave her widest smile yet. Mrs. Darbus looked hard at her, and then back at Ryan. "She wanted to join the stage crew."

"I'm assuming you're a new student?" Approaching the edge of the stage, she looked over the edge of her glasses.

"Yes, I am," Sarah said politely.

Mrs. Darbus was silent for a moment, but she never took her eyes off Sarah. Ryan knew that she was sizing her up; she wouldn't have any sort of incompetence in her theatre. Finally, she nodded. "All right. We could use someone in lights; our finest have graduated," she said, a mournful look on her face.

"Great! When do I start?" Sarah asked excitedly; Ryan's attention was lost when he noticed a light coming from an area behind the stage; the area that was known as his and Sharpay's dressing room.

Or at least, it had been. Everything was being wrapped up or dismantled; probably to be removed. The clothes that Sharpay had insisted on having in her dressing room were on her chair, in a pile.

"They're going to start cleaning it out today," a quiet voice said from behind him. Kelsi was standing in the doorway, looking at him. Her eyes were sad, and even pleading. "If you wanted to take anything…"

"No," he said bluntly. She lowered her eyes, then backed away, walking back out towards the stage.

It was no surprise to find the room like this; his parents had been talking about having it cleaned out for weeks. It just felt incredibly strange to be here, feeling like Sharpay would come in at any moment and snap at him not to take so long or ask him to help her zip up her costume.

_"What do you mean, you don't want to audition with me?" Sharpay's eyes glinted dangerously as she put her hands on her hips._

_"Exactly that. I want to go out for a role on my own," Ryan answered calmly. Sharpay took a deep breath, like she always did when she was worked up._

_"Fine. Then you can't share my dressing room anymore," Sharpay told him. Ryan sighed._

_"You can come get your stuff after school, unless you change your mind," she told him dismissively. _

_"Sharpay---" he began, but she gave him a look, and he stopped. "Fine."_

_He left the room, closing the door behind him. He heard a dull 'thunk', which probably resulted from Sharpay's throwing something at the wall in her anger._

Sharpay had refused to talk to him for the entire week after that. The day for the auditions came up, and Ryan had found that an unusually large amount of people were trying out for the part that he wanted. Sharpay had found herself a new partner---Dean. In the end, he wasn't surprised when his role was taken by someone else. Although he had been offered another part apologetically by Mrs. Darbus, he decided to drop out of the production altogether.

For the months that remained after the spring musical, his relationship with Sharpay had been a little strained. She always made a point of bringing up her and Dean's success, especially at the dinner table. His parents had practically glowed whenever she mentioned Dean's name; it was all Ryan could do not to throw up.

After dropping out of the musical, Ryan had decided to try out for the baseball team. There had been some apprehension, but the team had accepted him; Ryan had enjoyed the feeling of being independent from his sister, and discovering a talent that he knew she didn't have. (The one time she had tried to throw a baseball, she had broken a window from the neighboring house, then run off, leaving Ryan to take the fall.)

Everything had been great for him. He had been making some new friends; he had even felt the beginnings of a crush on the captain of the baseball team.

Of course, that was before he knew what went on behind the scenes. One day, after practice, he had returned to the baseball diamond to retrieve his catcher's mitt, which he had somehow neglected to pick up. He had found the rest of the team there---he wasn't sure what they were doing, but they were all crowded around a post near the diamond.

_Ryan approached his huddled teammates; the captain, Tom Ford, looked back at him and grinned. "Hey, man."_

_"What are you guys doing?" He asked. They spread out to let him see._

_A nervous-looking freshman was standing next to the post; Tom had a roll of tape in his hand, and was carefully winding it around the post and the boy, who didn't seem to be wearing anything._

_"We're gonna see if he has what it takes to join up," Rick, another member of the team, said. _

Ryan had pretended to be unaffected; he took his mitt, and went off. But the image of the freshman tied to that pole stayed with him for the entire day. The next morning, he got to school early, cut him down and went to the principal's office.

By the afternoon, every athlete in school was being questioned about hazing. A line stretched out from the principal's office, all the way down the hall. Ryan had avoided that hallway as best as he could; but nonetheless, he could feel harsh stares on his back, feel the whispers of people calling him a snitch.

Sharpay, despite Dean's protests, had decided to stand by her brother. She told him, of course, that he was an idiot, but she gave threatening looks to whoever sent glares their way. She made it clear that excluding him would mean not having her, so Dean had begrudgingly agreed to let him sit with them. Ryan would have much preferred not being within twenty feet of him, but when Sharpay was around, he had felt a lot less reviled; he had felt shielded.

"Ryan?" Sarah practically bounced into the room, looking as if her deepest desires had been realized. "Well, I'm all done. You going to head off?"

"Uh, yeah…" he paused for a moment. Taking a deep breath, he asked, "Did you want a ride home?"

"That would be great! Plus, I think I missed the bus." Sarah said. Ryan nodded, following her out. He didn't look back at the room, even though it was the last chance he had.


	3. NOTICE

**NOTICE: CHAPTER ONE IS A REPOST. **

**I had to repost the first chapter (aka the "prologue") after discovering a minor (read: GLARING) continuity error in which Sharpay died in October yet was magically alive in the spring, as was stated in the second installment. I'm really sorry about that; I don't know where my head is sometimes. But I fixed it. I also fixed the other mistakes I'd made in that chapter. So there's a bright side to my airheadedness. :-P**


	4. Rebuilding

CHAPTER TWO

Ryan could tell that Dr. Samuels was trying very hard to be patient, but the bulging vein in his forehead was a dead giveaway. His expression was perfectly calm, however, and his hands weren't shaking in the least. A simple toupee would be enough to solve the problem.

He had been asking Ryan questions for about an hour. They were typical questions, about Sharpay and his relationship with her, how he felt about her death (as if there were a particularly wide range of emotions one could feel after death), and what he was trying to do with himself now. Ryan had merely looked around, trying to focus his attention on anything but the questions he was being asked, and had ended up examining his grief counselor's bald head.

Ryan had known from the start that this was a bad idea. When Sharpay had died, East High had made use of its counselor and had everyone affiliated with her in any way see her and talk about their feelings. Ryan could remember when he had had his turn; he had said absolutely nothing for the entire run of their sessions; but at least that counselor had been kind enough not to push it. So they had spent an hour a day for three weeks staring at each other from opposite sides of her desk.

His parents had, of course, been informed. At the time, they had been swallowed by other things to take care of, such as funeral arrangements and the like. The most they had managed was to talk to him.

But when he came home from school after dropping Sarah off, he had seen his father's car in the driveway, unusual for that time of day. When he got inside, he saw both his parents waiting a few feet away from the door. That alone had given him a bad feeling, but when they'd told him he was going to see a grief counselor and no ifs, ands or buts about it, he had felt dread.

And now he was sitting here, a repeat of the last time someone tried to get him psychiatric help, simply staring at the irate man whose years of training to be patient were slowly waning. Dr. Samuels took a deep breath, as if he were about to dive to the bottom of a very deep sea.

"Ryan, I understand that this is not where you want to be right now. I understand that it's difficult for you to talk about this, and I've read the report on the last time. But I'd like you to try and give me a sense of how I can help you; that's why I'm here."

Ryan looked at him for a minute, saying nothing. He deliberated for a moment in his mind; after all, there was only so long that he could go without talking and he was certain to get an earful from his parents about how unhealthy it was to keep things bottled inside, or whatever his mother had learned from her yoga instructor that week. So, sighing, he straightened up from his slouch and looked Dr. Samuels directly in the eye; he noticed the pad and pen at the ready, and if he wasn't mistaken a triumphant gleam in his eye.

"I know what's going to help me, and it isn't sitting here talking about how sad I am." This statement seemed to shock the counselor, who didn't take his eyes off Ryan as he scribbled something down. "I want to do something. I don't wanna just sit around waiting for things to become okay again. I'm tired of taking whatever life throws at me." He was getting more worked up with each word that came out of his mouth; when he stopped, he realized he was sitting up, his spine straight, and his hands balled into fists. Dr. Samuels didn't seem deterred in the least, merely continuing to scribble a few things down. Finally, he looked up at Ryan.

"That was excellent, Ryan," he smiled, and Ryan found he was actually pleasant when he wasn't angry. "Very well done." He glanced at his watch.

"It seems like we're just out of time—." Three short, quick raps at the door confirmed his statement. "Come in," he called to whoever was at the door. Ryan assumed it would be his mother; she had said that she was going to pick him up. She had also driven him, as neither of his parents was particularly trusting of the fact that he would actually go by himself.

His mother entered the room, smiling politely at Dr. Samuels, who greeted her with a nod. Her smile widened as Ryan caught her eye. "Well, how did it go?" She asked cheerfully, walking over to him. Ryan stood up slowly, not wanting to miss what Dr. Samuels would say.

"It went fine," Dr. Samuels said plainly, smiling. "I'll see you next week, Ryan." Sighing with relief, Ryan nodded briefly at him. His mother seemed pleased; she beamed at him one last time.

"All right, so everything is set. Thank you, Dr. Samuels." And with a turn on her heel that emitted a loud squeak, his mother exited. Ryan followed suit, not looking forward to the conversation he knew they would have in the car.

"So, how was it?" Ryan could not have timed his mother's question more accurately. The moment she had settled into the car, she looked over at him with an encouraging smile.

"Fine," Ryan said, looking the other way. "Dr. Samuels wasn't that bad." At least he could feel good about not having lied; he did prefer him to Ms. Carver, the young and pretty school counselor who didn't look much like she had the ability to listen to people's problems, let alone help solve them.

"Well, good. I'm glad." Sensing the need to back off, his mother turned her eyes to the road.

His father was there when they got home; now was the usual time that he came back. Ryan saw him look out the window of his second-floor study as they pulled into the driveway, and by the time they'd reached the door, he was waiting for them in the front hall. Ryan smiled; his father had never been too good at subtlety. Seeing that his wife seemed to be satisfied, Ben Evans' expression showed immense relief. He smiled at Ryan, clapping a hand on his shoulder. "Everything go OK, son?" Ryan nodded.

Patting his shoulder again, Ben removed his hand. Ryan went upstairs, but the moment he closed the door he knew his parents would start talking about him. It was a habit of theirs. He wouldn't be able to hear anything, unfortunately; so he settled for going on the computer. He checked his email for the first time in a few months; nothing particularly interesting there, of course. He'd gotten a few emails from the country club, about the men's locker room being out of service due to repairs. Some emails from colleges, forwarded from his father, who'd gotten them from his own friends in high places.

Ryan froze. An idea had just come to him; the mere thought of it cause a painful knot in his stomach, but now that he'd thought of it he couldn't let it go. Biting his lip, he signed out of his account and typed in Sharpay's email address. Her password was easy enough to guess.

There weren't that many emails; most of them were from before her death, and they were from the theatre program. Some were from Zeke or other classmates. It was too much; Ryan hit the back button repeatedly, pushing himself away from the computer. He sat in the chair for about five minutes, staring off into space. He tried to think about what Sharpay might have been thinking when she read those emails; the one from Zeke would probably have made her giggle in that annoying way she had.

The painful knot was back; Ryan turned off the computer, heading downstairs. He didn't know what he was going to do; but his parents were nowhere in sight, so he sneaked off to the kitchen, hoping he could get a snack before Hilda, the cook who had been with them the longest, predicted his moves and stopped him.

There was no one in the kitchen; he saw various pots and pans lying around, and the stovetop occupied by tall pots and frying pans. The smell only intensified his desire to get something to eat.

As he expected, the ominous footsteps reached his ears before he'd taken two steps into the kitchen. Hilda, tall and imposing, stood behind him, a disapproving scowl on her face. "I know you know you're not supposed to be in here."

"But Hilda---"he began imploringly. Shaking her head, Hilda shooed him out, closing the double doors firmly behind her. Sighing, Ryan leaned on the door; He lifted his head as his father's voice reached his ears, sounding a bit angry.

"No, George. …I know you're trying to help, and I really appreciate it. I really do. But Elaine and I are handling this, and we just don't think it's the right time. You know, with school just starting and all…" He walked right past the kitchen, too immersed in his conversation to notice Ryan's presence.

George could only be one person, as far as Ryan knew. He used to be the head of security at his father's building, and he used to be father's personal 'bodyguard'. He didn't go with him everywhere, but he made sure that security was the best it could be, and was available as physical backup when needed. So maybe the term 'security advisor', if it existed, would suit him better. Either way, he had known the Evans' for a very long time, and by extension known Ryan for a long time. Although Ryan didn't see him much, he had often been accompanied by him for things like baseball games that his parents couldn't attend or other events like that. But he was getting on in age and recovering from a surgery, so he wasn't able to do much of the personal security thing anymore; he worked an investigative business out of his office, which was a few blocks away from his father's building.

Whatever George had been proposing, it had to be pretty big to get that kind of reaction from his father. And knowing his father, he would probably discuss it over dinner, trying to keep it only to his wife, of course. Ryan's curiosity burned; he glanced at the elaborate hall clock. 6:46. Fourteen minutes until the time when dinner was usually served.

He had a hard time pretending to be busy in his room while he waited; the second he heard his mother call from upstairs, he raced down, slipping into a calmer state near the bottom to avoid suspicion.

Dinner started out fairly silently; Ryan, who found himself to be truly hungry, dived into his food, momentarily forgetting what he'd decided earlier. Keeping an ear out, he pretended to be invested completely in his food. He could hear a quiet argument getting started; his parents were sitting close to each other. Reaching for a roll from a basket only two feet away from his mother's elbow, he grasped what he could of the conversation.

"…don't see why you're been so stubborn. It'll be good for him," his mother said heatedly. His father shook his head, trying not to be too obvious. Ryan had returned to his seat, and couldn't understand some of what he said…

"It's too soon. He'll feel overwhelmed," his father countered firmly. His mother's jaw tightened.

"You're underestimating him." And she must have felt Ryan's eyes on her at this point, because she looked over at him with a smile.

"How was school, darling?" As if she hadn't asked that at least five times since he'd come home.

"It was fine," Ryan repeated his words from before. As before, his mother nodded. Ryan tensed; he could tell she wanted to say something, and odds were it was the topic she had been discussing with her father.

"Your father and I—," she began, but his father shot her a dark look which was clearly meant to imply that he in no way supported this, "we've been talking with George; he said he needs a secretary since his last one—."

"Had an affair with a married man and moved to Spain to live the cliché?" His parents stared at him. He shrugged. "Wild guess."

"Yes, well, George needs a bit of help managing his affairs. He was wondering if you'd like to take the job." His mother looked hopeful, while his father was sporting an unusually sour expression.

"Sure, I guess. I don't need the money, though." He thought he'd begin by pointing out the obvious.

"It doesn't matter. Work has a good effect on everyone," his mother answered, in a tone which strongly suggested her positive view on the situation. Again, his father said nothing.

"Okay." Ryan could see the case was open-and-shut, despite his father's voiceless protests. "When do I start?" His mother cast a glance at her husband, shaking her head.

"I'll have to call and find out. But I'm glad you decided to take the job," she said, smiling brightly. Ryan nodded in agreement. In truth, he didn't know how he felt about the job; he wouldn't mind working with George—at least, he didn't think he would—and he was a good candidate to be a secretary, since he had a need for organization that his friends used to call 'more of a mania'.

"_Dude, what is this?" Chad asked incredulously, poking his head into Ryan's room. It was impeccably neat. Not a single article of clothing lay astray, or was even visible. _

"_My room…" Ryan said, rolling his eyes from where he stood beside him. Chad looked at him in disbelief._

"_**Your**__ room?" He looked around, dumbfounded. "Dude, are you a closet psycho or something? Cause only murderers put this much effort into cleaning." _

"_Or people who prefer not to live in squalor." Ryan retorted jokingly. Chad grinned, slapping him lightly on the arm before heading back downstairs to rejoin the 16__th__ birthday party that was being held for the twins._

The memory was still fresh on his mind as he got to school the next day; Sarah arrived shortly after, parking next to him. "Hey!" She said, running up to him. He smiled at her in greeting.

"How was your night?" She asked as they made their way toward the building. Ryan sighed.

"Eventful. My parents made me see a shrink." Sarah's eyes turned sympathetic.

"Was it bad?" She inquired quietly. Ryan shook his head lightly.

"Not the shrink himself. Just…the things we talked about." Sarah nodded, obviously waiting for a change in subject. She didn't seem comfortable talking about these things at all.

"I got a job, though," Ryan offered. Sarah's eyes turned to him again, bright as ever.

"Where? When? How much do you get paid?" He held up a hand to deter the onslaught of questions. Laughing, she stopped.

"It's as a secretary for this friend of my dad's. No big deal, really. I'm not even sure if I'm gonna get paid. It's not like I need it." He shrugged again. Sarah looked at him thoughtfully.

"I got a job too, actually. I submitted an application to the minimart near the library, and I got accepted as a trainee." She looked excited at the very thought; Ryan grinned at her enthusiasm.

The first half of the day went by without much disturbance in the flow. Ryan was able to ignore the jibes that certain people still went out of their way to send him, mostly because they were the same thing they had been saying to him for the past four months.

As he closed his locker, he caught a glimpse of Gabriella Montez coming down the hallway; there would be no way to get by unnoticed. Her expression indicated that, as always, she was deep in thought. So it was no surprise when she accidentally struck a small boy in the shoulder, fell off-balance and dropped her bag and her books. She knelt down immediately to get them, assisted by a boy who apparently considered himself a rent-a-knight in shining armor. Ryan couldn't help but glance at them as he passed, and in the midst of giggling at some undoubtedly well-thought-out quip from her rescuer, she noticed him. Her gaze lingered on his, but she broke it abruptly, pretending to be immersed in gathering her things.

Ryan could remember the golden days, when Gabriella and Troy had made everyone's lives brighter with their brilliant beacon of happiness. Well, it hadn't been quite like that, but close.

_Gabriella and Troy walked down the hallway, practically molding into each other at the hip. Troy's arm was around her shoulder tightly, and he was bending his neck to reach her face for a kiss. _

"_Don't you just want to have Norman Rockwell paint those two?" Sharpay asked in an extremely sarcastic tone of sweetness as she observed the couple, turning back to her locker and slamming it. Ryan's own locker, next to hers, was still open as he was putting his books into it. He looked at his sister, who was evidently very incensed by this public display of affection._

"_Feeling a little cast-off, are we?" He asked, amused for the half-second it took her to give him a piercing glare. He wiped the grin off his face, closing his locker and turning back to watch the couple before whom the other students seemed to part like the Red Sea. _

"_Nauseated is a better word. Those two need to be forcibly separated, just so they remember what it's like to be a normal person." Sharpay scoffed. Ryan shook his head._

"_Whatever you say, sis."_

But after the crackdown on hazing in the school, during which it had been found that some of the lesser-known (to Ryan, anyway) members of the basketball team had been guilty of 'initiation' rites, she had broken up with Troy, accusing him of not playing up to his role as captain. The couple had been back on again after Troy had worked the magic that clearly never ran out when it came to apologies.

Shelly Pomroy's party had put an end to that, among many other things. Troy had been very clearly engaging in activities with another girl—probably the lighthaired one he remembered—and Gabriella, finding out from a friend (as she had been out of town that particular weekend) had officially called it quits.

Of course, Ryan hadn't known all this himself; there were a lot of gossips in the school who didn't seem to mind who overhead them. He had been able to piece together what he didn't know; but the bit about Shelly's party had particularly disturbed him. Apparently that party had been the most ill-fated event to ever be held in a private dwelling.

The first week of school passed by more quickly than he expected; between adjusting to classes, doing things with Sarah and waiting for word on his new job, it seemed like Ryan had hardly blinked when he found it was Friday.

When the bell rang to dismiss school for the weekend, there was a stampede in the hallways as everyone tried to be the first one out; Sarah, being small as she was, could barely walk without being bowled over by an over-enthusiastic football player. Once they had escaped the madness, the crisp fall air was welcome to them.

As had been their routine for the past week, Ryan was to give Sarah a ride home; but when he approached his car, he realized that that wouldn't be happening today. His tires had been deflated; sighing, he knelt down to check for a hole. Sarah copied his movement; it seemed that all four of the tires had been punctured.

"I can tell this is gonna become a habit for someone," Ryan muttered, standing back up. He was at a loss for what to do; his parents were probably elsewhere. He couldn't ask George to come pick him up. Sarah watched him, waiting for his decision.

Troy slammed the door to his truck as he got in, feeling exceedingly happy that the weekend was finally here. He wouldn't have to look on as Gabriella made nice with that new kid, whoever the hell he was, and pretend not to care. Glancing in his rearview mirror, he was about to start backing up, until he noticed Ryan Evans standing helplessly at the side of his car. Biting his lip, he considered what he could do; there was barely anyone around anymore, so the least he could do was ask if he needed help, although the answer to that question was pretty clear. So he pulled back into the parking space, turned the car off, and jumped out, walking towards him.

Ryan looked over his shoulder, surprised, when he heard approaching footsteps. His stomach dropped a little when he saw it was Troy Bolton, heading toward him. He swallowed, turning back around, and tried to think of the appropriate reaction to have to his presence.

"Do you have a flat, Ryan?" Troy asked, feeling incredibly stupid as he was staring right at the car with its undeniably deflated tires. Ryan said nothing, neither in his expression nor his words. Troy sighed, glancing at Sarah. He had heard about the new girl who was hanging out with Ryan Evans, a situation that most of the people he had hear discussing it called a 'shame'.

"Well, listen, I could give you guys a ride—." He saw the defiance enter Ryan's eyes before he even finished the sentence. "Or, you know…I could get my dad's car. It's got more room. I don't live far away; it'll take me two minutes." He realized that he was trying to convince Ryan to agree with each sentence he tacked on; he looked into Ryan's eyes pleadingly. Sarah didn't speak; she was watching Ryan, he eyes going from him to Troy as she tried to work out the relationship they had with each other.

"No, I don't think that's necessary. You can take Sarah first, she has to get home sooner." Ryan nodded at the blonde, who ducked her head shyly at being the center of attention, if only for a moment.

Troy looked surprised. "Oh, okay." He smiled at her with his usual charm. "Come on, Sarah." Looking back at Ryan, who gave her a smile, she followed Troy back to his truck. Ryan couldn't help but narrow his eyes at their retreating backs.

In the time it took for Troy to come back for him, Ryan had already called his father, telling him about the flat tires. Although his father had been took preoccupied to take notice of the fact that all four of the tires had been flattened, he said he would send a tow truck to pick the car up and take it to their garage. Ryan told him he already had a ride home; upon hearing this, his father gave a quick goodbye and then hung up.

Troy returned, and Ryan took as long as he could to get into the truck beside him. They didn't speak for the entire ride; Ryan supposed that was his fault, for having such an unfriendly air about him, but there was hardly anything to talk about in any case. Except the fact that Ryan had almost put an end to his basketball career, or the party that had simultaneously ruined both their lives.

They didn't even look at each other when the truck stopped in front of Ryan's house; muttering goodbye, he jumped out and didn't look back until the truck's groans were inaudible.


	5. Wake Up and Smell the Stoner

CHAPTER THREE

George had been very happy when Ryan's father had begrudgingly informed him that they accepted his offer of a job. Ryan was to report after school on Monday; well, there was one thing to look forward to.

Over the weekend, Sarah came over to the Evans' home. Although Ryan had already told her what to expect in terms of size, her eyes still widened comically when she got out of her father's junky vehicle in front of the driveway. Ryan came down to greet her; she stared at him, unable to say a single word. Ryan started to get a little worried; would she be overwhelmed by this? But a minute later, Sarah had returned to her bright, smiling self and they went on into the house, to Ryan's relief.

His parents had forfeited their duties when they heard that a new friend of Ryan's was coming over. As could be expected, they were standing in the hall, beaming, as the two of them came inside. Sarah's expression only made them happier—they shook her hand with more enthusiasm than Ryan could recall ever seeing from them.

So his weekend hadn't been that bad, either. He woke up on Monday morning with a little less dread than he had had last time; his parents noticed and brightened. It was almost as if they were tuned to his mood. After giving his mother a hug and receiving the usual clap on the shoulder from his father, he got in his car and headed down to pick Sarah up.

"You look happy," she piped up as he drove down her street. He looked at her, amused.

"Is that bad thing?" Sarah shook her head at this suggestion.

"Of course not. It's new, though." She shrugged, looking out through the window. "Hey, look."

Ryan leaned forward to see past her at what she was pointing; a sleek, silver sports car. Inside was the guy from earlier that week—and Gabriella. They were deep in conversation; at least, that's what it looked like, since his eyes were on the road. He snuck past Ryan into the parking lot; scowling, Ryan sped up a little to follow behind him.

"I bet Troy's gonna have a fit when he sees that," Sarah said, giggling. Ryan wasn't sure if she was giggling at the thought of Troy being angry, or just the thought of Troy himself. Either way, his foot pressed up against the gas with a little more pressure than he meant it to.

Sure enough, everywhere Ryan went at school, people were talking about the incident. Judging by Troy's expression whenever Ryan saw him, he could guess the gossip was annoying him just as much as anyone else. He didn't see Gabriella at all; she was probably trying to outmaneuver the people who were hounding her for her actions. Her "friend" was nowhere in sight either; it was like talking about a celebrity couple.

By the end of the day, the excitement had for the most part waned. But it was no guess to say that literally everyone knew about this development.

When he was dropping Sara off, she wouldn't stop wishing him good luck with his new job. She said she'd call him later and ask how it was; Ryan didn't doubt that. Smiling in satisfaction, she skipped off to her door.

George's part of the building was small; it encompassed about three offices and a tiny lobby. Ryan parked in front of it, as he had been told he could do, and went inside.

There was no one at the front desk, as was to be expected. George came in from a room down the hall, smiling and leaning a bit on his cane. He came forward and brought Ryan into a one-armed hug which left his lungs feeling crushed. As he regained his breath, George asked him how he was doing. He shrugged in response; this got a laugh out of the man. His laugh was rough and sort of like a bark, which suited his graying hair and weathered appearance perfectly. He was stocky and muscled, and his hands did not look like it would be a cinch to get them off once they were wrapped around your neck. He grinned down at his newest employee, putting an arm around his shoulder.

"Your family's well, I trust?" He asked, leading him down the hall to what must be his office. Ryan nodded. "Cat got your tongue, kid?" He asked jokingly. Ryan reddened, but then George seemed to get serious. "Your mother warned me. Said you might be a little on the quiet side. Understandable, of course…" he trailed off, looking deep in thought.

"Well, anyway," he said, suddenly reanimated, as he opened the door to his place. It was small, and messy. Ryan felt a little twitch in his elbow upon seeing the stacks of papers and folders that lay around on the desk. He could tell George had felt the twitch and was trying not to laugh. "If you really want to fix it, you can, but not now. Now I gotta show you the ropes."

'The ropes,' as it turned out, were fairly simple. Ryan's job was basically to answer the phone, hand it to him, or write down messages. He also had to file away a few records, but he knew that would hardly be difficult for him.

George's small business included two other licensed private investigators who could never, ever get along. Nancy Kane and Keith Lester had very different views on how to approach a case, and were now choosing to spend some of their time in the office debating those views at a very high volume. Ryan wished George had told him to bring some aspirin; apparently, the way George dealt with it was by hollering at the two to shut up, but only when the phone rang.

"And_ I'm_ telling _you_ that the only way a person could fool as strong an alarm system as—oh, hello." Nancy came into the room, swinging a camera from a strap in her hand while she talked to Keith, who was reading a piece of paper while he drank some coffee. She had only just noticed Ryan, who had been sitting there for about an hour. "You must be the new secretary." Sliding the strap onto her shoulder, she stuck out her hand to shake it—Ryan was surprised by how firmly she shook it, almost all business.

"Hey," Keith said, waving his cup of coffee at him in greeting. Ryan nodded, while Nancy rolled her eyes in exasperation. Keith looked at her, annoyed.

"What did I do now?"

"Well, you could be a little more welcoming—."

"SHUT UP, THE BOTH OF YOU!!!" George's irate roar left a deadly silence in the room. Keith and Nancy glared at each other one last time before she stormed off into her office, slamming the door behind her. Ryan thought he could hear George swear from behind his closed door.

"Don't worry about her, kid," Keith told him reassuringly. "She's crazy. You'll get used to her." Ryan nodded. Keith put down his coffee—on Ryan's desk—and looked at the sheet he was holding one last time before disappearing down the hall to George's office.

When Keith left, taking his coffee, to work on a case, things got a little less hectic. For the remaining two hours, not a soul could be heard in the area. Nancy left the building around five o'clock, probably so she wouldn't have to face Keith when he came back, although she claimed she had to do some surveillance.

At six, Ryan's shift was over; he'd had enough time to do all his homework. He went to George's office to say goodbye.

"See you, kid. Same time tomorrow." George waved him away, concentrating on a file that was laid in front of him. Ryan left quietly. The minute he got into his car, his phone rang; he grinned. Sarah, of course.

The news of his employment spread like wildfire. He didn't know how; someone had probably seen him driving away from George's. Either way, the general reaction was—"who would hire _him_?" It took only a couple of days for the thrill to die down; Ryan was glad.

Or, at least, he would have been. On Thursday, as he was standing at his locker, he felt the presence of someone walking up to him—it couldn't have been Sarah, as she was home sick. And if it wasn't Sarah, he wasn't so sure he wanted to look. Nevertheless, he could hardly pretend not to notice, so he looked over at the newcomer. And regretted it instantly.

"What do you want?" He asked, not looking back at him. Troy faltered a little from the harsh tone, but he swallowed and put on a brave face, as Ryan expected him to do.

"I need your help." Ryan stared at him. He looked perfectly serious; his eyes were pleading in that annoyingly puppyish way he had. Blinking slowly, Ryan started walking; Troy fell into step with him.

"You want my help?" Troy nodded eagerly. "With what?"

"Well…" Biting his lip, Troy trailed off. Ryan looked at him impatiently.

"Talk, Troy. I don't have all day." Nodding, the other boy cleared his throat.

"I heard you work at, like, a detective office or something." Of course he had. Ryan sighed.

"Yes, I do. What's your point?" He looked hard at him; he wasn't about to make this too easy.

"I need you to do something for me." Ryan glared at him.

"Okay, vague that up a little. Seriously." It must be important if Troy was having this much difficulty putting together his thoughts. Ryan couldn't tell whether or not he was being sarcastic.

"I'm sorry!" Troy exclaimed, looking a little angry. "It's a hard thing to do, okay?"

"What, ask me for help? That shouldn't be hard. Not even for you." Ryan replied bitingly.

Troy looked behind them and around them while they continued down the hall; no one seemed to be listening in. He leaned closer to Ryan, but was still, he noticed, keeping his distance. "I need you to look up Gabriella's boyfriend." He said quietly. Ryan stared at him again.

"Like a background check?" Troy nodded. Ryan shook his head lightly.

"I'm a secretary, Troy. I don't do detective work."

"I'll pay you. Whatever you want, just get me some info on that guy." Troy said heatedly. Ryan lowered his eyes, thinking.

"I'll think about it, okay? I'll call you tonight." Troy nodded, and then stopped walking; he began to job lightly in the other direction. Ryan watched him until he was out of sight.

Ryan kept to his word: he thought about it for the rest of the day. In the end, he decided he might as well ask. If George wouldn't tell him, maybe he could ask Keith or even Nancy. They seemed like they would be fine with going against George's wishes.

"Absolutely not." George sat up with a small wince, to make the effect of his stony expression more intimidating. "This is exactly what I promised your father _wouldn't _happen. No detective work. Absolutely not." He repeated, for emphasis. Ryan heaved a greatly exaggerated sigh of disappointment—hey, acting lessons weren't for nothing, after all.

"Okay, George," he said complacently. Nodding approvingly, George sat back, watching him as he left the room, closing the door behind him.

Keith was next on the list; Ryan knocked lightly on his door, on which a wooden sign read KEITH LESTER, PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR. The door opened and Keith stood there, with the cup of coffee that had become symbolic. He grinned at Ryan. "What's up, kid?" 

Ryan fidgeted a little, to throw Keith off the 'up to no good' trail. He kept his eyes lowered as if he were embarrassed. "I was wondering if I could have your help with something." He asked, looking up at him and making sure to keep an innocent expression. He must have been overdoing it a little, because Keith frowned.

"With what? You're not gonna commit arson or something, are you?" He stepped back, inviting Ryan in and closing the door behind them. Ryan shook his head.

"Well, what then?" Keith looked genuinely curious. Ryan suppressed a satisfied smile.

Of course, when he heard what was being asked of him, he wasn't exactly pleased. "Ryan, I can't let you do background checks. You're not exactly licensed and—." Ryan simply continued to stare at him. Sighing, he let up. "Fine. But I'll find the information, you…what are you gonna do with it, anyway?"

"It's for a friend," Ryan said absently. He had already pulled out his phone and was searching for Troy among his contacts. He dialed the number.

"Hello?" Troy sounded out of breath. Ryan didn't want to think about the connotations.

"It's me. Did I interrupt something?" Ryan asked, amused.

"No." Troy didn't sound like he understood. "About that thing—."

"Yeah. I'll bring you the information tomorrow. You can, I dunno, PayPal me the money or something."

"Thanks a lot, Ryan," Troy said, relieved. "I owe you one."

"Actually, you owe me several. I gotta go. Bye." Ryan waited for Troy to return the sentiment before hanging up.

Troy was waiting at his locker when he showed up with the envelope that contained the information Keith had printed off. As Ryan had found out, there was a website that was specifically dedicated to providing all sorts of information about people—and everyone they were related to in any way. It was a little disconcerting.

As soon as the envelope was in his hands, Troy practically tore the top off. Ryan raised his eyebrows at his eagerness. Troy speed-read through the first page; suddenly, he stopped. He looked up at Ryan an expression of light horror on his face.

"What?" Ryan asked, taking the papers from him. He scanned the sheet…and then he saw it.

_Expelled from Franklin High School in Lansing, Michigan for possession and abuse of drugs._

Ryan looked up; now Troy looked not only horrified, but angry. Very angry. He sighed.

"Look, Troy—don't do anything stupid, okay? Gabriella obviously doesn't know about this."

"Then we should tell her!" Troy hissed, slamming his fist into a locker. Ryan jumped a little at his reaction.

"We can't right now, Troy. We have no right. And…he could change." As he said the words, he didn't really believe them himself. But they seemed to slow Troy down.

"You're right. He could change." Troy took a deep breath. He took the envelope out of Ryan's hands, looking at it. Then, sighing, he handed it back to him. Before Ryan could say another word, he walked off, looking a little dejected. Ryan looked down at the envelope, thoughts already running through his head.

It was possible that Gabriella's new boyfriend—Logan Rooks was his name—had really changed his habits, but the expulsion was dated from last June. It was not easy to believe that only four months would completely cleanse Logan. Biting his lip, Ryan deliberated on what to do.

In the end, he'd shoved the envelope into his bag and tried not to think about it. The result was that Sarah constantly pinned him as "off somewhere in deep space"; he was relieved when lunch came and he had a chance to explain himself.

Sarah had looked astonished when he told her what they'd discovered. She had insisted on knowing what he was going to do; she also couldn't stop looking at Logan, who was sitting at a table with Gabriella. Ryan was keeping his eye on them too; Logan seemed to be picking at his food, not eating much of it. Gabriella was completely engrossed in whatever conversation they could be having, and her food was left basically untouched as well. When that girl fell, she fell hard. Ryan shook his head lightly. Sarah, not understanding, simply stared.

"They seem friendly," Ryan muttered, trying to pass that off as the reason for his concentration.

Before they left the cafeteria, Ryan saw Logan and Gabriella back in line; she appeared to be waiting for him. He was buying a coffee; Ryan watched carefully as he took what looked like two sugar packets…and put one into his pocket. Interesting.

Someone knocked into him at that moment, and when he recovered himself they had already left the line.

Ryan had never paid much attention to Logan in his Calculus class before; but now he watched him discreetly in between taking notes. He noticed Logan's leg was moving constantly; as if he couldn't bear to leave it in one place. Logan noticed him looked at one point, and glared. Ryan had left off his observation for about five minutes; when he looked back the leg had stopped moving.

When the bell rang to signify the end of class, Ryan took a deep breath. It was time to see if his acting chops were really as good as he thought they were. Standing up, he fell into step with Logan, who looked at him distastefully. He was taller by about a half-foot, and his bulky letter jacket made him seem more menacing.

"So I noticed your leg's kind of jumpy," Ryan began, sounding offhand. Logan glared.

"It's a habit." His voice was hard.

"Oh." Ryan cleared his throat. "Is it a constant thing? Cause my cousin has that. It's more of a twitch, really."

"No, it's just a habit," Logan repeated, sounding annoyed. Ryan stopped walking alongside him. Well, so far there were no fruits of labor…

"What are you talking to him for?" Troy's voice came from behind; he stopped in front of Ryan, looking a little upset.

"Oh, no reason…I was just wondering something." Ryan answered, still looking at where Logan had been.

"Wondering what?" Troy persisted. Ryan shook his head. "Did you find something else?"

"No, Troy. Just never mind, okay?" Ryan told him in an exasperated voice, stalking off.

Ryan knew Logan's locker was near the gym; and now he knew exactly where. On his way to his own locker, he had encountered quite a scene. Logan was pressing Gabriella against it, and they were making out with a…considerably intensity. Passersby stared, but then quickly looked away, trying to look like they hadn't even noticed. Ryan walked by, glancing at the locker numbers as he went…232…231…and the one that they were…pressed against. 230. Ryan continued on his way, not looking back.

He seemed to be lost in a kind of daze that day; Sarah started to get annoyed by him, but she realized on her own what he was trying to do; she shook her head. "Ryan, you're better off staying out of this. You should tell a teacher or something, they'll find a way to solve it." He only smiled at that.

Troy had looked at him suspiciously all day, as if he could tell Ryan was up to something. If he wasn't sure that Troy would overreact and completely blow any chance to figure things out, he would have told him; but as it were, Troy had to be left out of the equation. It was hard enough trying to do what he was doing without a pink big angry elephant following him around all the time; plus, the excitement of the situation was too much for him to want to share. Although he couldn't really figure out how all these things came together yet, he knew there was something going on. Logan was a creature of habit—just not in the way he said he was.

He didn't know much about drugs. His parents had all but put him and his sister in a bubble to keep them away from such things; he had never been in the company of those who did that sort of thing. Not before, anyway. So while he could tell when someone was under the influence, it was only through exaggerated symptoms; he hadn't a chance of identifying them when it wasn't apparent. With Logan, he was certainly doing his best to hide the effects. This made it all the more annoying; Ryan wasn't sure what effects he was having. So for the moment, his search was fruitless.

He drove Sarah home, as usual; but there was a difference in the way she was acting. Although she didn't say anything, Ryan could feel her disapproval when she watched him, as he had been deep in thoughts of Logan for the entire ride. He snapped out of it enough to wave goodbye; she had smiled in return, but her eyes were still distrustful. He didn't understand her aversion to this; maybe it was just unfamiliar territory. Maybe she didn't like the idea of undermining the importance of authority. He didn't know; but he hoped it wouldn't cause too much of a rift between them. Sarah was a breath of fresh air for him; the way she carried herself, the way she reacted to everything around her made him feel like he was no longer in East High, where people were anything but bouncy and unburdened.

While Ryan was sitting on his bed at home, doing the last of his homework, he felt his attention begin to wander away from the Biology reading…and then he remembered something.

Last year, he had had to suffer through Health class. Among other things, the teacher had given them a multitude of pamphlets on different topics, such as sex, bullying…and drugs. Ryan had kept them, although without the intention of ever looking at them again; they were probably somewhere deep in a drawer. Maybe that would help shed some light on the situation, but he didn't know.

The most straightforward way of finding out what kind of drug Logan could be using was to find the drug itself…and the easiest way to do that…Ryan smiled as the beginnings of a plan formed in his head. And the best part was he wouldn't need any help from Keith, if he planned carefully. But there was the issue of needed someone to help him pull it off…he immediately thought of Sarah, of course, but he wasn't sure how willing she would be to accept. Deciding to take a chance, he dialed her number once he was sure he was out of earshot of everybody.

Sarah picked up, sounding happy to hear his voice. So far so good…

"Hey, Sarah. Listen…I was wondering if you could help me with something." He said, trying to keep his voice quiet.

"Um…sure. What did you need?" Sarah asked, and he could already tell she was getting a little unsure.

He sighed. "Would you mind waking up a little early tomorrow?"

It had taken longer than he had anticipated, but Sarah had finally agreed to help him out.

Sarah stumbled outside, half asleep, when Ryan called her the next morning. Getting into the car, she glared at him, letting him know exactly what she thought of the circumstances. "This is not 'a little early', Ryan Evans. This is 'I'm crazy for ever agreeing to this early'." Apparently, it took awhile for her to settle into her usual bubbly attitude. She said nothing the whole way there; he had already informed her what they were going to be doing. She had brought what he'd asked; a small stack of fliers. She informed him that he owed her a dollar for the cost of making the copies at the library. He ignored her for now; she'd feel better once she'd gotten something to drink.

So, one cup of cafeteria breakfast coffee later, her complaints had ceased; they went up to the main office. Ryan saw, to his pleasure, that the newest of the school secretaries was sitting at the front desk. She seemed to be the only one in the office. She was sipping at a mug of coffee and attending to something on the computer. She looked tired; it took her a few seconds to register his presence. She narrowed her eyes at him in suspicion.

"Can I help you?" She asked. Ryan could tell she was hoping the answer was "no".

"Um, there's a girl out there….she's like, putting fliers up or something all over the place. Just thought you ought to know," he said, jabbing a thumb in the direction of the hall. Groaning, the secretary stood up and headed outside; Ryan waited until he could hear Sarah shouting faintly about 'first amendment rights', before he sneaked onto the computer; she was already logged in, thankfully.

He pulled up the student records and quickly searched for Logan; he found him quickly enough. Scrolling down, he kept an ear out in case the secretary was going to return before he was done. Finally he hit upon what he had been looking for; it was just his luck that Logan's locker combination happened to be accessible without another password. He wrote it down quickly on a piece of scrap paper, then went back to the original screen and slipped back in front of the desk as the secretary came back in, carrying the fliers that Sarah had brought. As she threw them into the recycling bin, muttering, Ryan left the office.

Sarah was standing in the hall, trying her hardest not to giggle loudly enough for the secretary to hear her. She spotted Ryan and her eyes turned serious; he went off in the direction that he knew Logan's locker to be in. Sarah followed.

Glancing at the paper, Ryan began to turn the lock; thankfully the combination was correct, and Logan's locker now stood wide open. Pushing aside the books, he looked for a sign of something illicit being hidden in it; it occurred to him that Logan might go to a little more trouble than that. He started to flip through the books, and Sarah helped him once she realized what he was doing.

It only took about five minutes for Ryan to realize that he had to admit defeat; and, maybe, admit that he might have been barking up the wrong tree. His mother often talked about your mind playing tricks on you when you wanted to see things that weren't really there; he didn't know where she got those little snippets of wisdom.

"We might as well just go wait in the car; people won't start showing up for another twenty minutes," he said, feeling a little disappointed. Sarah patted his arm sympathetically, sipping at her coffee. She made a face, staring at the cup.

"Eurgh. No amount of sugar can make this stuff taste good." She tossed the cup into a nearby garbage can.

School seemed to take even longer, what with the extra time they'd spent there earlier. Sarah's excitement had worn off, and she could barely keep awake; she bought more coffee, claiming that it really did keep her awake, but pursing her lips every time she took a sip.

As for Ryan, he was too engrossed in his failure to continue. He couldn't stop thinking that there should have been something in that locker. Logan was up to no good, and he knew it…but how was he going to prove it? He kept drawing up blanks. He was new at this, after all; the only thing that seemed to make sense was the obvious.

"Ryan!" He closed his eyes, mentally willing himself into another world, a world where Troy Bolton _didn't _attract the attention of half the student body by yelling the name of a social pariah across the hall. But it was not to be; the moment he opened his eyes he could tell he was stuck in that exact same plane of existence.

"What, Troy?" He asked, turning towards him with gritted teeth. Troy looked taken aback; Ryan thought it was a good thing he had a basketball scholarship locked up. The boy could be a little dense.

"I need to talk to you about Logan," Troy told him quietly. Ryan froze. Looking around and finding that people had forgotten about Troy's little show, he grabbed his shirt and pulled him into the boys' bathroom nearby.

Ryan turned to him after he barricaded the door with the little wood stopper. "What did you want to talk about?"

Troy looked like he thought it might be best not to comment on what had just happened. "He's definitely up to something. I saw him in the locker room earlier today, and he was looking really sketchy. Like, checking to see if he was alone; I got out of there before he could see me."

The locker room! Of course. Logan was an athlete. "Is Logan going out for football?"

"Uh, yeah, I think so." Troy nodded.

"Find a reason to get down there after school, during tryouts. You're the coach's son, that shouldn't be too hard. Just keep an eye on him; believe me, I'll be doing the same."

And their little impromptu meeting was adjourned. Troy nodded again and made his way out; what Ryan didn't expect was that he turned back, giving Ryan a small smile, before leaving the room.

Ryan exited the bathroom at exactly the right moment, it seemed. Logan walked by, Gabriella at his side, and a cup of coffee in his hand. It wasn't even lunch time yet, and if he wasn't mistaken he'd seen him drinking coffee when he came in that morning. That much caffeine couldn't be good for anybody, especially an athlete. Ryan frowned at Logan's retreating back.

"Ryan? Why do you look so hypnotized?" Sarah asked. They were sitting at lunch, and Ryan had managed to seek out and keep his eyes on Logan. He realized he hadn't even touched his lunch; it had already gone cold. Sarah looked over her shoulder to where his attention was fixed, and looked back at him, scowling. "You're not gonna let this go, are you?"

And then Ryan saw it; Logan was drinking what seemed to be his third cup of coffee that day, pouring sugar into it. Several little packets, from what it looked like. His instincts took the lead; he looked at Sarah for a moment. "I'll be right back."

Gabriella and Logan both stared at him as they watched him approach, but he acted perfectly natural. He took a seat next to Logan.

"Hi, sorry to interrupt. Uh, I was just wondering if I could have, like, a sip of your coffee…I've been wanting to get some and I wasn't sure if it would taste like crap or not." Before either Logan or Gabriella could say a word, he picked up the cup and tipped it, pouring some of the coffee into his mouth. It was downright awful, as Sarah had said; but the weird thing was that it wasn't sweet at all. Swallowing, he put a smile on. "Thanks. It tastes awful. Bitter, too." He said, getting up and walking away. He could hear Gabriella: "What is he talking about? You put, like, a ton of sugar in that."

Wait a minute.

Sugar? He turned back, taking a quick look at the torn packets; they were a light blue color. Yet he could have sworn, this morning, that Sarah had poured green packets of sugar into her coffee. He walked swiftly to the condiment table, trying to look a little less conspicuous; and he saw them instantly, in the box labeled "sugar". Bright green packets. For a moment, he simply stood there, but a second later, everything seemed to come slowly together. Logan obviously wasn't putting sugar in his coffee….and sugar was a substance commonly substituted for…

Ryan's jaw dropped. Pulling out his phone, he quickly typed out a text message, sending it to Troy.

_Check in his gym locker. He could be hiding it there. _He kept his eyes on Troy for a moment; he watched as Troy opened his phone, then looked around for him. Giving him a nod, Troy returned to his table as if nothing had happened.

"What do you mean, he's not hiding it in his gym locker?" Ryan struggled to keep his voice down. Troy shook his head.

"I got the janitor to open it for me, saying it was mine, but there was nothing in there. I guess the only thing he keeps there is his jacket, he came out wearing it that time I saw him."

Troy and Ryan had sat in the back of Biology class together so they could discuss without the teacher interrupting them; Ryan felt as though he were about to blow their cover by letting off a small scream of frustration. But he bit his lip, keeping that particular urge inside.

"You're _sure _there was nothing? You looked carefully?" Ryan pressed. Troy nodded.

"I'm telling you, Ryan, it was completely empty." Ryan flopped back in his seat, huffing. He realized what he was doing was borderline pouting, but he didn't care; he was so close to nailing this, he could feel it. But where was that sneaky bastard keeping his cocaine?

The discovery that the substance was coke was made earlier during the class after a quick perusal of his extra-handy drug pamphlet; Troy had given him an odd look after he'd brought it out, but once Ryan had explained his reasoning, he had agreed that the symptoms all seemed to be there in some dulled form; suddenly Ryan could see Logan's restless leg and his…well…passionate make-out scene with Gabriella, and that he was constantly drinking coffee…the one thing he couldn't figure out was where a stupid, druggie, girl-thieving athlete would get the intelligence necessary to keep something like drugs out of….hold on.

Ryan straightened up. Logan was an athlete. He was planning on joining the football team. He had obviously been on it in his other school, considering he had that stupid letter jacket.

Which he never took off. Ever. Ryan's eyes widened in realization. He looked at Troy, who seemed rather alarmed by his expression. Ryan turned to him.

"Does Logan ever talk about his letter jacket? I mean, like, as if it's a person?" Ryan asked.

"Uh, sometimes. I hear him bragging about how it's custom-made and stuff. Why?" Troy now looked completely lost.

"Custom-made, huh?" Ryan smiled. He knew exactly what was going on.

Logan seemed a little surprised to find Ryan leaning against his locker after last period, reading a book, as if he hadn't a care in the world and didn't seem to realize where he was standing.

Ryan looked up as he approached. "Oh, hey." He straightened up, smiling. Gabriella, who was hanging off Logan's arm, looked between them, confused.

"What do you want, fag?" Logan asked cuttingly. Ryan's smile twitched, but he held steady. He knew who the winner would be here.

"You know, I've been hearing some very interesting things about you, Logan." He took a step closer. "Like, that your jacket is custom made? That must have cost a fortune. Reaching out to touch the sleeve, he discreetly opened the switchblade he'd been keeping in his pocket. "I hope it wasn't expensive." And with that, he swiftly jerked the blade up; Logan gasped. Several little blue packets of "sugar" came tumbling out of his sleeve. Gabriella stared.

"Logan, what are these?" She asked, kneeling down to take a handful. "This isn't from the cafeteria."

"It's also not an alternative to Sweet-n-Low," Ryan told her bluntly. Logan looked at him, horrified. "So how much _did_ it cost you to get pockets sewn into your sleeves?" He asked innocently, cocking his head to the side. Logan simply blinked.

"You're crafty, I'll give you that," Ryan told him. "Hiding packets of cocaine in your jacket sleeves, pretending that you were using the sugar in the cafeteria when really, you were giving your coffee a little extra kick. I almost gave up." He shrugged.

"Guess I'll just go show these to Principal Matsui. It's too bad about your chances at football, though." He said, grabbing a handful of the packets. Gabriella stood up, her eyes blazing.

"How could you do this, Logan? I trusted you!" She said. "You don't need to go anywhere, Ryan. Allow me!" And with that, she stormed off, clutching the blue packets tightly in her hand.

"I dunno about you, but I think that constitutes a breakup," Ryan grinned. "I'll just keep these for a bit, in case Gabriella chickens out. That should give you some time to get rid of the rest of them." And he went off. Logan hadn't even moved; but the minute Ryan turned his back, he heard a quiet growl and then a loud _thud_. Troy had managed to hold Logan down before his attempt to launch himself on Ryan could be realized. Ryan gave him a little smile of appreciation before heading down the hall; the final bell rang loudly as he left the school, shoving the packets into his bag.


	6. All in a Day's Work

CHAPTER FOUR

Ryan's feat became known to the entire East High student body in about, he would guess, twelve hours. There was an easily extendible grapevine through which all news passed; when it came to gossip, people were eager to communicate with each other no matter their social standing.

So it was no real surprise to him when he walked into the school the next day and found that most eyes were on him. He walked on, pretending not to be affected by this new attention; well, at least until he noticed something a little strange about it.

While most of the people who were looking at him still seemed to hold him in the same regard, some of them seemed to actually be smiling at him, and a few even waved. Ryan didn't know what to think; it was almost surreal, seeing those who had ignored and mocked him for the past months suddenly turning back to him. He didn't know if they really had newfound respect for him; he couldn't help taking it with a grain of salt. Without reacting to their friendly advances, he moved along as if he hadn't noticed them at all.

Of course, there were those who, judging by their intensified glares at him, were less than pleased with what he'd done. Most of these, however, were athletes who were probably disgruntled by what his discovery meant for the rest of them. He had no doubt they believed it to be even more proof that he was nothing but a snitch, but he was long past caring.

He walked through the halls, feeling a little zombie-like as he tried to avoid really looking at anyone; Sarah trailed behind him, visibly uncomfortable with being the centre of attention. She was tense, and unlike him, could not stop craning her neck and looking around, as if she couldn't quite believe all this commotion was directed towards her friend. Ryan just wished they would all look away, for one minute; but whenever he walked past a group of people, they would fall silent and stare at him, as if waiting for some sort of proclamation.

It did not stop at the students, and when Ryan realized this he wondered if the thought of staying home that had flashed through his mind that morning had really been such a bad idea. He had known there would be some sort of change, but he hadn't expected continents to shift and territories to form. His teachers were all doing their best to hide the fact that they were wondering how on Earth Ryan, who was a generally quiet student and not particularly skilled in any subject that they knew of, could have turned into a sleuth overnight.

Thankfully, the stares had died down a little once school had gotten everyone's mind off him. He could still feel the resentful eyes of the school's jocks on him, but they held a kind of familiarity to them that made them easy to ignore. He knew he was probably pissing them off by acting like he wasn't bothered at all by their nonverbal threats, but this only made him feel better.

"Dude, do you believe this?" Chad asked incredulously. The question was addressed to Troy, who was standing at his side as they stood in the hall; but his attention seemed to be diverted. He was looking into the distance, as if he were being hypnotized or something. Chad gave him a light punch in the arm to redirect his attention.

"What?" Troy asked, looking at him disinterestedly. Chad scowled.

"Ryan Evans. He's acting like he didn't even do anything, man. Like cause he got rid of one druggie, it suddenly makes him okay again." Chad's expression showed his contempt for this supposed conclusion that Ryan had drawn about himself.

"So what?" Troy asked, before he could stop himself. "Doesn't matter." At his friend's surprised expression, he quickly amended his statement. "It doesn't change anything, what he did."

"Damn right, it doesn't," Chad agreed. Although Ryan had now disappeared from their sight, his teeth were gritted at the very thought of him. "What I don't get is that people say _you_ helped him." He turned curious and somewhat accusing eyes to Troy, waiting for an explanation.

Troy's heart sped up; what could he say? "I was just doing it for Gabriella," he said smoothly. "She deserved better than that guy." As the words left him, he felt his heart tighten painfully in his chest. Chad didn't seem to notice the difficulty with which Troy said this, and grinned.

"Dude, you are so hung up on her. It's ridiculous." He hit Troy in the shoulder jokingly; Troy didn't feel anything. Gabriella had just turned the corner and was walking this way with Taylor at her side, deep in conversation. He knew she would be hurting—she always felt things so deeply—but when she walked by, she looked nothing but happy. She didn't even look his way; not even when Taylor gave Chad a quick wave hello. His heart tightened again.

"Sarah, just say it," Ryan said impatiently. All throughout lunch, Sarah had been picking at her food, then lifting her head and opening her mouth as if to say something, but then reconsidering and going back to her food. This cycle had been repeated about four times, and when Ryan tried introducing a third topic of conversation without getting any reaction from her, he finally had enough. "What do you want to tell me?"

Putting down her fork, the blonde inhaled deeply through her nose. "Ryan…"

"Yes, that's me. Continue." Ryan told her. She bit her lip.

"Doyouwannacomeovertoday?" She spat, as though she were getting rid of a large obstruction in her throat. Ryan stared.

"You want me to come over to your house?" He asked, confused. It wasn't that the possibility was so unfathomable…but why she had been so nervous to ask him was lost on him.

Sarah took another deep breath, not looking any more relieved. Ryan wondered with some horror what she could possibly have to tell him. "No, see…it's not _me _that wants you to come over." And he was lost again. She reddened when she realized what her words could be interpreted as. "I mean, I do want you to come, but it's just…my dad. He wants to meet you."

"He wants to meet me?" Ryan knew those words could only be accompanied by bad, bad things. But Sarah knew he wasn't exactly about to ask her to prom, so why on Earth would her father hold suspicions against him? Unless, of course, he didn't know. Which was worse. He gulped. Sarah's expression gave him the idea that he probably looked as startled as he felt. She instantly looked guilty.

"I'm sorry, Ryan!" She exclaimed. "He's just…a little protective, is all. He just wants to see you; I talk about you so much," she gave a little laugh which was meant to be lighthearted.

"It's fine, Sarah. Really." He told her reassuringly. "So, today?" She nodded, looking very pleased at his acceptance. She would have hugged him if they hadn't been separated by the table, judging by the way she was beaming at him.

Ryan was plagued by images of what he thought Mr. Jones might be like. He kept picturing a six-foot-something, platinum-blond, intensely tanned, muscular bodybuilder, although he knew the likelihood of that wasn't very good. He tried to get a grip on himself; it wasn't like he was going to be facing a death sentence. Mr. Jones probably just wanted to see him and know if he was a good influence for his daughter or not. Ryan's heart sank into his stomach as he recalled that he'd asked her to help him gain information that he was never supposed to have access to.

He was standing at his locker, his shoulders tensed with the thoughts that were running through his head; a light tap on his shoulder made him cringe; he turned his head to see Gabriella looking at him quizzically.

"Are you okay, Ryan?" She asked him. He nodded. Gabriella looked down, apparently finding her feet very interesting. He could see he was going to have to initiate whatever she'd come here to do.

"Did you want to talk to me about something?" He asked, closing his locker. She looked up at him, her eyes reluctant.

"Um…yeah." She said quietly. "I just wanted to say, you know, thanks. For…you know," she gave a little laugh, obviously meant to come off as casual although it was a little high-pitched. Ryan wondered if he should mention the fact that Troy was the one who'd started the whole thing in the first place; he decided against it. The two were not exactly on good terms at the moment.

Then again, maybe 'at the moment' wasn't exactly the right way to describe it. Troy and Gabriella had been on the rocks after their breakup in the spring; but they had broken up again during the summer, and had not spoken since. Ryan watched as Gabriella tried to collect herself; she didn't seem to want to look at him at all.

For the first time, he felt a sense of deep loss. He and Gabriella had become close friends, despite Sharpay's very apparent disapproval.

"_So, what do you wanna do?" Ryan asked over the phone as he single-handedly fixed himself a sandwich. Sharpay was watching him talk while she picked at her own food, removing the crust from her bread (as he had apparently been too distracted to do it himself). _

"_I don't know," Gabriella answered. She was lying on her bed, hugging her pillow and staring up at the ceiling. "We could go to the mall."_

"_No thanks. I had to play pack mule for my sister today. I can't even look at a shopping bag for at least the next 24 hours." Ryan made a face at Sharpay, who rolled her eyes. She picked off a piece of sandwich daintily, putting it into her mouth. _

"_Okay," Gabriella giggled. "We could see a movie. Nothing too girly, I promise," she said quickly, remembering what Ryan had told her about being Sharpay's designated tissue-holder. _

"_What good movies are there that aren't girly?" Ryan asked, taking a bite out of his food. _

"_Good point. Well, I guess we could_—_." Before Gabriella could finish her sentence, she heard the call-waiting beep on her phone. "Sorry, Ryan. I got call waiting."_

_Ryan knew who it was going to be, and he also knew that meant any chance of doing anything with Gabriella was lost. He would have to stay home and watch Lifetime movies with his sister after all…he groaned aloud at the thought. _

"_Ryan? Hey, I'm back. Listen, Troy just called and asked if I wanted to go to dinner with him, so I guess we can't do anything…" Gabriella said guiltily. "Sorry. I'l call you tomorrow, though."_

"_Bye," Ryan hung up. Sharpay smiled wickedly as she realized what was going on..._

He and Gabriella used to spend a lot of time together. He wasn't sure exactly when their friendship had developed, but she had been refreshingly new in his life; she was bubbly and optimistic, encouraging and sweet…something that he didn't see too often with Sharpay. His sister had accused him of borderline treason for hanging out with the girl who'd "ruined" their musical, which had only been the beginning. When she'd conceded defeat and allowed herself to start associating with them as well, she had made a point of showing a certain amount of disgust when it came to Troy and Gabriella's relationship. It had certainly been a little awkward, but they'd gotten used to her. Everyone did, eventually.

Pulling himself back into the present, he found that Gabriella was staring at her feet, looking lost in her own thoughts. He didn't doubt that they were probably thinking along the same wavelengths; even now, with their relationship so strained that, for all intents and purposes, one could say it didn't exist any more, he still knew her the same way he had then. It hurt to think that.

"Well, I'd better go," Gabriella said airily, and Ryan could only nod as she walked away. The sound of the bell ringing reminded him that he had an English class to get to; he would probably have stood there obliviously otherwise.

When the end of the day came around, all Ryan wanted to do was go home. He barely remembered that he was supposed to meet Sarah's father today, but when he did the dread just became heavier. Not to mention he'd have to call George and tell him he was going to be late…

As he stood waiting by his locker for Sarah to come down, he saw the unmistakeable form of Chad Danforth making his way down the hall, flanked by a few of his buddies. Sighing heavily, he guessed that it would be too late to move now; Chad, for all that could be said about him, did have excellent vision.

So he just stood there, bracing himself for an onslaught. Chad and his little herd stopped cold in front of him, obviously expecting a reaction like running away or looking scared or pleading with him. Ryan uncrossed his arms and looked him in the eye.

"Hey, Ryan," Chad said, his tone full of disdain.

"Hey, Chad," Ryan replied evenly.

"What do you think you're doing, Evans?" Chad said suddenly, moving closer to him. "What gives you the right to start investigating us? Huh?" He asked, prodding him in the chest with a finger. Ryan kept his mouth shut.

"You know, you'd be better off just staying away from all this stuff. Rich boy like you, you'll get in all kinds of trouble." Chad told him, smirking. He nodded to his followers and they went off, but not before giving Ryan a glare from each of them.

As much as he hated to say it, Chad had a point. When he'd realized what Logan Rooks had been up to, everything in him had screamed to let it be, that it was none of his business…but there was a subconscious part of him which told him that he couldn't _not _do anything; it wasn't right. He didn't know how much that part of him had to do with the fact that he'd be helping Gabriella if he succumbed to it, but he was glad. Seeing the gormless expression on Logan's face had given him a feeling of power; he felt for once like he'd done something to change a situation, instead of sitting back and letting it take its course. He thought about how different things might have been if he hadn't done anything…and the possibilities made him shudder.

Sarah finally appeared. The sight of her was blissfully welcome, giving his mind a chance to rest from the endless possibilities it seemed to dredge up; his imagination could do a lot when it was left to its own devices. He had been trying to get the image of a bloodied up Troy, which he wasn't quite sure when he had thought of, out of his head, when the familiar blonde hair came into his line of sight. She wasn't skipping or bouncing as usual; she was actually trudging, a physical representation of what he was feeling. She didn't say anything to him, and he didn't say anything to her; by now both of them knew where they were headed.

Ryan was hoping that Sarah would at least tell him something about her father, so he wouldn't do or say something that might upset him. With the current image of the platinum-blond haired bodybuilder in mind, he did not see offending him as a viable option. But Sarah didn't say a word the whole ride; she sat stony-faced, obviously deep in thought and perhaps picturing her own version of the events that were about to transpire. All in all, there wasn't a particularly hopeful atmosphere.

Sarah rang the bell once, and it only took a few seconds for the door to open. Ryan tried not to let his jaw drop but it was all he could do; his surprise rendered him incapable of speech.

Instead of the burly person he'd pictured before, Mr. Jones was…well, thin. And dark-haired. He didn't look particularly menacing…until you got to his eyes. His eyes were dark and fierce, and Ryan had to hold back a cringe. It was only then that he remembered his manners and pulled himself together to introduce himself, fairly impressed when he managed not to stutter. Mr. Jones didn't look particularly pleased, and shook his hand curtly before stepping back to let them inside.

Ryan had never been inside a house which seemed to reflect its owner so well. It was plain, and sparingly decorated. The furniture looked worn and there was something in the way that the chairs were so straight and hard-looking that made it all a little more foreboding. It could have been his nervousness that was making him see these things; in fact, he was almost sure it was, but either way, he stood there staring for another minute before realizing, again, that he'd drifted off. Mr. Jones was standing with his arm around Sarah, a disapproving look on his face. Ryan gave a tentative smile, not sure how he'd react to a grin. He might as well have not considered it; Mr. Jones gave no indication of even having seen his gesture. In a moment of panic, he considered the possibility that he might be blind; but Sarah would surely have told him that, if nothing else. He swallowed, trying to figure out what exactly he was so afraid of.

"You're Ryan, hm?" He said finally, looking him up and down. Judging from his expression, his opinion would not have been much different had Ryan come into the house wearing a hat flashier than the one he had on today (black), and a shirt that had buttons in the front and was a color of the rainbow or lighter. Assuming, of course, that he would even be let in.

"Yes, sir," he said, tacking on the sir as quickly as he could to make it seem like less of an afterthought. He didn't know where he had gotten such absent-minded manners, since his parents had had important guests around since before he could walk and had always made a point of telling him what to say and do. His mind was running on empty now.

"Sarah tells me you used to do theatre." His choice of this as an opening topic was not promising in the least, but Ryan ran with it.

"I did." There. A short, non-threatening answer. He almost thought he saw the corners of Mr. Jones' mouth twitch.

"I see," he continued, his voice still hard. "Well, I'm glad you have something in common." This seemed to be a sort of compliment; Sarah brightened a little and turned to her father.

"Dad, Ryan would love to stay a little longer, but he needs to get to work." She smiled up at him. He looked at Ryan, not impressed but interested.

"Where do you work?" He asked firmly.

"Uh, I'm a secretary. It's for a friend of my dad's…" At these words, a little of the luster seemed to go out of Mr. Jones' eyes, but nonetheless, he nodded.

"Good; a job is a good thing. Well, I won't keep you." He said. Ryan looked at Sarah, waiting for a sign that this was a dismissal; she gave him a little nod, smiling. Ryan gave a little wave before exiting, and suddenly the air seemed much fresher and cooler; glancing at his phone, he realized only five minutes had passed. Funny how they could seem like practically an eternity.

Although he'd been forewarned, George was a little irked when Ryan showed up to work late. He gave him a quick chastising wherein Ryan said it was just a one-time thing, and then he went off to his office. For once, Nancy and Keith did not seem to be there. Ryan found this strange and at the same time, an immense relief. Tensions were high whenever those two were in a room together.

But they returned about twenty minutes later, together and arguing loudly. They paused to give him a greeting and then continued with their squabble, while Ryan tried to file away some things he'd been given by George.

As he was lifting the papers to put them in the file, the entire stack slipped from his hand; gritting his teeth in annoyance, he picked them up, and then noticed something strange. One piece of paper that seemed to stand out was taller and wider than the others; it didn't look like a file, so much as a picture. Looking around to make sure he was unwatched, Ryan pulled out a picture of a license plate that he did not recognize, on a car that he didn't recognize. Shrugging, he placed it back in the pile and filed them away neatly, closing the drawer. He groaned as sounds of another fight brewing came from Nancy's office, laying his head tiredly on his arms.

That night, he practically waited for a reasonable time to go to bed, and then ran upstairs without a word to his parents. Never had he been so glad to have a day end.


	7. What's in a Name?

CHAPTER FIVE

Ryan had always felt more at ease when his life had some structure to it. He hated feeling like he had no control over anything; it was one of the few qualities that he shared with Sharpay, although people rarely noticed it in him since she acted upon it to the fullest extent possible. There was no getting anything by her without having her see and approve it; and if this was neglected, she invariably threw a hissy fit of epic proportions. Once, it had even gotten to the point where she'd commanded her parents to change outfits on an outing one night; they had been so startled by her reaction that it took them a while to remember that they were the parents, and Sharpay had to go that night without feeling satisfied that everything was to her taste. It was the only incident Ryan could remember where she had not managed to get her way.

But he'd always remained silent on the sidelines, even when things did not go the way he wanted; he had never known the same satisfaction as his sister. No one expected him to want his own way, and that was how the world knew the Evans'.

Now, a month and a half into school, Ryan was settling into a life all his own. His job and his studies, and spending time with Sarah, became the things around which his life was centered; as far as he was concerned, he didn't need anything else. His parents had started to leave him alone, seeing that he had become as well-adjusted as one could be in the circumstances; the only thing they insisted upon was his continued visits to Dr. Samuels. Ever since that first time, he hadn't had any monumental breakthroughs; he'd returned to his old ways of saying as little as possible. Dr. Samuels told him, over and over, that he could be trusted, but he was not the problem. Ryan just couldn't talk about these things, not with anybody. Sarah, although she knew a few of the details, would always hesitate whenever their conversation came to a point where she could introduce the topic, but she never said anything.

He didn't know much about her, either. Since that fateful visit, he hadn't been asked back to her home; Sarah had assured him that he'd left a good impression on her father. Ryan found that he never wondered where Sarah's mother was, although he was certain she didn't live with them; and in a way, this made their friendship better. They didn't feel the need to constantly pick at each other's secrets; he felt content just being with her and not worrying about what she had to hide.

When the time came for preparations for the winter musical, he started to see less and less of her; she had constant duties with the stage crew, and although she apologized profusely, Ryan understood. He did feel a little abandoned, despite knowing that she had agreed to this awhile ago, but he didn't say anything. The winter musical was the last thing he wanted to talk about.

Everywhere he went, he saw flyers proclaiming the availability of spots in Wardrobe and Makeup; he walked past the signup sheet every time he went from Biology to English, and it was always surrounded by a group of young kids who were babbling excitedly about their opportunities. He noticed that none of the people who were usually the first to sign up for the productions were among this group; he didn't quite know what to make of it. He saw Kelsi one day, looking over the list; she seemed upset. He thought he could see her eyes watering as she scanned the pages. The sight made him turn around and immediately head the other way, although he knew it would cost him five minutes of getting to class.

The thought stuck with him; he couldn't get the image of Kelsi, who'd been so loyal to the drama program, out of his head. He remembered that in the weeks after Sharpay's death, she'd been the only person who wouldn't cringe or laugh at the sight of him; they didn't talk much, but he would often go to her in the music room and they would sit together in silence, with the exception of a few meaningless statements about the weather and finals. It hadn't been much, but it was a small comfort. But he knew it wouldn't be enough anymore; he wouldn't be content sitting there and not saying a thing. Neither of them would.

The auditions began; that was when he'd discovered that Gabriella had signed up to be in the musical. She'd been heading to the auditorium when he was on his way to meet Sarah; but she hadn't looked excited or even happy. Ryan wondered if she was doing this because she wanted to, or because she was trying to keep up appearances.

It was the short period of time in which the auditions took place which made Ryan realize that everything really had changed. If things were they way they used to be, the way they were supposed to be, he wouldn't have been seeing anything _but_ the auditorium for the next few months. Gabriella and Troy would probably have auditioned in a pair, as they had been planning to do, and landed the parts that Sharpay had been yearning for. He could see, very clearly, how their shining faces would have smiled on opening night, as the crowd cheered in adoration and Sharpay counted another one down; only one more to go. Troy and Gabriella would give each other a congratulatory kiss, and all would be right with the world.

But as it stood, Gabriella was going, alone and unenthusiastic, to the auditions, while Ryan walked the other way and hadn't so much as glanced at the production fliers. Theatre was the last thing on Troy's mind (not that it had been first before), and….he tried to block out the next thought that came to his mind. _And Sharpay was dead._

Ryan didn't know how East High had first taken to the news that Sharpay Evans had been murdered; he hadn't come to school for a week afterwards. His parents had kept him home throughout all the arrangements, claiming that they wanted him to be involved; he had felt, at the time, as though they wanted him to be there so that they could pretend, for a minute, that their daughter wasn't dead. After all, her twin was as good as anything. It was the most confusing time in his life; he hadn't really been attuned to what was going on around him. Relatives suddenly started arriving, people were hugging him and giving condolences…he didn't remember much about that.

But when he had finally worked up the courage to go back and face his fellow students, he found that the school had been completely turned on its head. People were speculating left and right about what had really happened; they were looking at him as if trying to work out if he had murdered his sister. He had certainly heard that whispered in the halls a few times, but he'd stood tall and ignored it.

Everywhere he went, he'd found someone reading about it. The incident in the library came immediately to mind…

_Ryan was struggling with his math homework; it seemed to make very little sense to him, even though the concept had been explained just that day. Granted, he hadn't been paying much attention. Maybe that would have been a good idea, seeing as how he'd missed a week of school. _

_From where he was sitting, he could see that the person in front of him was reading the latest issue of People magazine. The image of his sister's body lying on the ground, lifeless, was large enough that it took up half the page. _

"_So you've heard what they've been saying, right?" He looked up, startled; Logan's voice seemed to come out of nowhere. He was standing right behind Ryan, looking where he had been looking moments before. His eyes were fixed on the magazine as he spoke._

_Ryan didn't know how to answer; he wasn't sure what Logan was talking about. "People have been talking, Evans. They won't stop wondering if maybe you're a lot crazier than you look…or if I am." He swallowed; Ryan thought his eyes were shining with tears that he was obviously trying to hold back. _

"_I dunno, man…" Logan tried to pass off the act of wiping a tear away as…well, Ryan didn't know, since it was painfully obvious what he was doing. "I just don't even know what's going to happen."_

_And he stood there. Finally, he cast his eyes on Ryan, who was still watching him without any idea how to react; he gave a bitter little chuckle._

"_Don't look like such a little kid, Evans. Haven't you ever seen anyone cry before?" He asked. Ryan didn't say anything, watching Logan as he turned and left, his steps quickening. _

Ryan drove straight to work after school; Sarah had had a meeting with Mrs. Darbus to attend. George was pleased to see him early; Ryan gave him a small smile in greeting and went straight to his desk.

"Hey, Ryan," Nancy said absently as she went towards him. "Can I get something out of the drawer?" Ryan moved back obligingly as she opened the drawer and pulled out a bunch of papers; he noticed that among those papers was the picture he'd seen yesterday, of the unfamiliar car.

When he pulled into the driveway of his home, he noticed his father's car wasn't there; odd, since he hadn't mentioned he was working late. Brushing it off, Ryan went into the house; strangely, he found that his mother wasn't home either. Just as he was thinking of calling her, Hilda's voice reached his ears.

"Ryan, you're late!" She told him, her tone reprimanding. "Come, I have something ready for you." Before he could open his mouth, she had him by the wrist and was dragging him into the kitchen. He let himself be led to the table; this was a rare occurrence in itself as by dinnertime, the kitchen was off-limits to anyone who wasn't cooking.

"Hilda, what's going—." A plateful of food was shoved onto the table in front of him, and Hilda walked away, muttering distractedly to herself. Ryan looked down at the dinner; it was pasta. Hilda never made pasta on a Wednesday; something really had to be wrong. The thought drove all of the hunger out of his system. He pulled out his phone, dialing his father's number; busy. Trying to fight an onset of panic, he dialed his mother. To his relief, she answered promptly.

"Ryan?" She sounded surprised to hear his voice. He hadn't called her on her cell phone in awhile; there hadn't been a real need.

"Hey, mom," he said. He felt a little silly now; what was he going to say? 'I had a moment of irrational panic and I wanted to call you?' That would probably result in almost permanent residence at Dr. Samuels'.

"Is everything alright?" She asked, sounding worried.

"Yeah, everything' s fine," he told her quickly. He felt stupider by the minute.

"I'm glad, sweetie…but I'm driving right now, so unless you wanted to tell me something…?" He could hear the intonations of her voice which meant that she was probably considering the option he'd thought of.

"No, mom. I'll see you at home." He said, and quickly hung up. He stared at the phone for a moment; then, the sound of an engine reached his ears. Bounding up from his chair, he headed towards the front hall. As he'd thought, his father had come home. His voice indicated that he was clearly having an argument with someone over the phone…well, what else was new? Ryan stood at the kitchen doors, opening them a crack to hear better.

"Well, did you see him?" A pause. "I was told he was coming back on the tenth. I don't know…look, I understand but you have to keep going. I'll pay double. No, I understand that but I want to keep an eye on him."

The next words were spoken in a lower tone of voice. "No, he doesn't. I'd like to keep it that way, so please just make sure…of course. Yes, he is, which is why I need you to be very careful. Look, I really appreciate your doing this. The check's in the mail, all right?...OK. I'll talk to you later. Bye." Ryan scrambled to get back to his seat as his father's footsteps approached; he took his first bite of pasta as he came through the door; he looked surprised to see him sitting there.

"Ryan, what are you doing in here? Did Hilda let you in?" He asked suspiciously. Ryan nodded, noodles hanging out of his mouth. He chewed furiously, trying to clear his mouth so he could talk.

"Hi, dad. Yeah, she actually made me come sit here. Go figure." He shrugged. His father nodded, looking deep in thought.

"Well, I'll let you eat; I need to go check on something. Where's your mother, by the way?" He asked, turning back to him as he was making his way out.

"Dunno. I called her, she said she was driving." Ryan answered. Giving him a nod, his father left the kitchen; Ryan heard Hilda's voice in the hall, asking him where he was going. A moment later she came in, looking even more flustered than before. She didn't even look at Ryan, but went over to the stove and started stirring whatever was in the pot frantically.

"Is everything okay, Hilda?" Ryan asked, as he stood up to put his plate in the sink. She looked at him over her shoulder, waving a hand at him dismissively.

"Everything is all right. Your father is just very busy today." Although he didn't believe it for a second, he nodded and smiled, then left the kitchen to go stand in the hall; his father had left, again. He had heard the roar of his car's engine as he pulled out of the driveway at what seemed to be a considerable speed. Ryan headed upstairs, thinking.

His father had never acted this way before; and the way he'd asked after her mother, it was almost like he was trying to avoid her. Ryan thought with a sinking feeling that this might be the beginning of the unthinkable.

He'd often heard that the divorce rate was twice as high for those who'd lost a child. While the euphemism made him snicker, he hadn't really considered the statement for what it was. His parents had never seemed the type to be on the edge of divorce; he hadn't noticed significant changes in their behavior towards one another for the past few months, but then again, he hadn't been paying the closest attention. So now he was faced with the worst possibility of all.

He didn't know what to do. Just when he'd thought his life had half a chance of getting back on track, it was starting to crumble again. He didn't know why, but he thought of Sarah in that moment and the thought just made him feel worse. She shouldn't be friends with him; he was going to get her in trouble one day…she could be friends with the others, someone whose life wasn't as badly screwed up as his. But he knew she wouldn't. He'd asked her about it before, when she'd mentioned to him what she had been hearing around the school.

"_Ryan, you should hear what people say about you." Sarah told him quietly at lunch. It was the second day of school; the second day that they were sitting with each other. Ryan didn't look at her; he only sighed. _

"_Look, if people are saying such awful things…" He began, but Sarah shook her head. She already knew what he was going to say and she was having none of it._

"_It doesn't matter to me. I mean, when you think about it, who wants to be friends with people who talk about others like that? Not me, that's for sure." She smiled at him; he smiled back._

That had been the beginning of their friendship, really. He had liked her well enough on the first day, but she hadn't seemed like anything special, just a girl who was too perky for her own good. But when they had that little exchange, it had suddenly become clear to him that Sarah was more than a bubbly, cheerful girl. He had felt a sudden appreciation for this newcomer, who had more loyalty to him than the people he'd basically grown up with.

He didn't know how long he'd lain there, lost in his thoughts and staring aimlessly at the ceiling. But he managed to finally pull himself together enough to do his homework, although when he was finished he realized he'd done it as though he were in a trance. Setting it aside, he reached out for his phone, which he'd placed on his beside table. He dialed Sarah's number; she answered on the first ring.

"Hey Ryan, what's up?" She asked cheerfully. Ryan felt himself smile just a little bit.

"Nothing…how was your meeting?" He asked.

"Um…trying. Thank you for warning me about Mrs. Darbus." Sarah said tiredly.

"No problem. You'll get used to her." Ryan assured her.

"Oh, I hope so." Sarah sighed. "How was work?"

"Nothing special. George was happy that I got there five minutes early." He smiled at the thought; he had never pegged George to be such a stickler for time. Maybe it was his career choice that had developed that in him.

"That's good. Oh, crap. I gotta go, Ry, dinner's about to burn." She hung up before Ryan could stop laughing to say goodbye.

"Ryan?" His father's voice came from downstairs. He got up and went over to the door, walking out into the hallway. Leaning over the railing, he looked down. His father was there, looking up at him.

"Son, can you do me a favor? I left a couple of papers up in my office; they're on the left side of the desk, can you get them for me?" He called up.

"Sure, dad. Just a minute." Ryan said; he walked down the hall until he reached the door he knew to be his dad's office. He'd never been inside; it was almost always locked when his dad wasn't there, and when he was he was usually to busy to have anyone come in.

The door was unlocked; he must have been in there recently. The first thing Ryan noticed when he came in was the advanced state of disorder of the desk; no wonder his father wouldn't let anyone come in here. Anyone in this house other than Ryan would have suffered cardiac arrest at the sight.

The left side of the desk was actually comparatively neat. Ryan saw a small stack of papers; he figured that must be the one his father wanted. He picked it up; he couldn't help glancing at the front page. It was handwritten; _GET BACK TO ME ASAP_ was scrawled messily on the cover. It was just like his father to forget something so obviously important; Ryan rolled his eyes.

In his hurry to get the papers down to his dad, he caught his foot on the small rug under the rolling chair. He went down, the papers flew everywhere; he knocked the chair into the desk, and some of what had been on it was dislodged. Groaning, he pushed himself up. He gathered up the papers and put them on the chair, then began to arrange the things on the desk. That was when he noticed that, sitting on top of the fax machine, was a copy of the license plate picture he'd seen in George's office. He grabbed it to get a closer look; it was definitely the same.

Picking up the stack of papers on the chair, Ryan turned to the second page; it was a printout...from the same website Keith had used to find information on Logan Rooks. Ryan skimmed, looking for anything remarkable…and he found it. Pulling up the car picture again, he read the license plate and then glanced back at the printout. It said that the car in the picture, going by the license, belonged to John Ramsey.

Before he could do anything else, his father called him again; this time he sounded a little upset. Ryan quickly rearranged everything and ran downstairs, handing his father the stack of papers.

"I heard a thud, everything OK in there?" His father asked as he went to the front door. Ryan nodded, giving him a reassuring smile. "All right. I'll be back in an hour, tops. Tell your mother, OK?" Another nod, and he was off.

John Ramsey. He'd heard that name before, but where? The sound of the door opening interrupted his thoughts; his mother came in. She looked angry, but she still put on a smile and went to give him a one-armed hug.

"Hey, mom," he said distractedly. "Dad just went out."

"I know, dear," she said, with a little laugh. "I saw him in the driveway." Her expression turned serious. "Ryan, do you mind if I ask you why you called today? Is everything all right?"

"Everything is fine, mom. Trust me." Ryan smiled at her. She nodded and patted his shoulder before going upstairs.

Ryan didn't figure out who John Ramsey was until Friday. He had been sitting in study hall with no work to do, bored out of his mind; he couldn't take out his cell phone because the teacher was sure to notice. So he sat with his head in his arms, trying to fall asleep. Unfortunately, there were those who did not think of study hall as a quiet time to rest and were therefore having whispered conversations all around him. Sighing, he resigned himself to another half-hour of boredom.

He began to think about idle things; how the teacher was reading _A Tree Grows in Brooklyn_, a book which his mother had said was an American classic and made him read in eighth grade. It was the same year he and Sharpay had been taking lessons in jazz dancing, and the year that Sharpay had gotten her dog Boi. He remembered that when he'd first been brought home, he misbehaved horribly; biting everyone who tried to feed him, going to the bathroom on their new leather couch, and worst of all…he'd gotten into his father's room and started tearing up his papers. Boi was put in an obedience school for the year and his father never left the door unlocked again.

He remembered that his parents had been debating on what to do with Boi after Sharpay died. He wouldn't listen to anyone else, and seemed to have gathered that his mistress would no longer be around, because he started to growl every time someone approached her room. His father had suggest putting him up for adoption, but his mother had insisted that they could give him as a gift to Jennifer Ramsey, who was the daughter of one of his father's business partners. The second he completed that thought he shot up so quickly that his neck cracked. He rubbed it, wincing.

Jennifer Ramsey was one of the Ramsey twins; they were both around Ryan's age, as far as he knew. He had only seen her and her sister Caitlin once, at a party his father had had. He had invited basically everyone who was involved with him business-wise. Ryan had overheard him telling his mother, days before the party, that he wouldn't have dreamed of inviting them otherwise; John Ramsey had to be one of the most irritating, stuck-up men he had ever met. He had followed this declaration with a few choice words for which his mother had reprimanded him in a whisper.

So now, there was another question that Ryan wanted to know the answer to: why was his father paying George to follow John around?

Because, certainly, he had hired George for the job. It couldn't be a coincidence that the license plate picture showed up so much in his office. He wondered if Nancy and Keith were in on it, too; if their constant absences were them taking turns on their stakeout.

His father didn't want him to know about this, that was certain. He wouldn't have been so opposed to his taking the job if he didn't think it would mean that Ryan might be exposed to this. But what was so important that he couldn't tell his own son? Ryan usually didn't care about what his father was up to, seeing as he seldom understood, but his thoughts strayed back to the realization that had come to him the night before: his parents had a chance of not being able to support their marriage any longer. If his mother didn't know about this, it could be the straw on the camel's back; the one thing that would send the Evans family crashing to the ground. And Ryan refused to accept that. He was going to find out what was going on whether his father approved of it or not.


	8. A Resolution

CHAPTER SIX

It was almost nine o clock, and yet Nancy hadn't left. She was still parked up the street, across from the low building. Ryan couldn't see it very clearly from where he was, but it appeared to be a motel of some sort; he thought with a smirk of all the things that typically went on in a motel, which would explain why they'd been waiting so long. But, honestly, he was about ten minutes away from calling John Ramsey himself and asking him to speed it up. Hotel trysts were just that: trysts. He knew that the occupants of the room probably wouldn't be cuddling after the fact.

They'd been sitting here for about four hours. Ryan had managed to convince George to let him off early, making up a project that needed to be done for the next day. George had let him go with so little fuss that it only made Ryan more secure in the knowledge that he'd chosen the right day.

He'd been watching the behavior of George and his staff avidly after his discovery; after all, his father had written GET BACK TO ME SOON, and that meant something could be expected to come up. He had taken to looking through the things that were handed to him to file, aware that he was breaking both the law and the terms of his employment. But since they didn't yield the information he was looking for, Ryan thought it could hardly be considered a crime.

And yet, the information he'd been looking for fell, as most things in his life did, right into his lap.

He'd been waiting the entire week. One Thursday afternoon, as he was getting started on his Biology homework, the phone rang. He picked it up, with the standard greeting: "Warner Investigations". He scribbled down the note as the frenzied man spoke; his college-aged daughter had run off, and he suspected that her good-for-nothing boyfriend had everything to do with it. He asked him to hold while he went and gave the note to George, who then picked up the phone himself.

While George was busy trying to console the harried father on the line, Nancy came out of the hall; she had apparently been looking for Geroge, because when she saw that he was busy Ryan could see a little urgency come into her expression. She could try to hide it as well as she wanted to; Ryan had too much acting experience not to tell when someone was masking their feelings. She had a paper in her hand, and she was pointing to it and looking helplessly at George. His eyes widened as he continued to speak on the phone, and Ryan tried to keep his eyes on his reading; he thought he had read the same line about mitochondria about five times now.

Finally, Nancy grew tired of trying to communicate her message without even the liberty to pantomime; she grabbed a piece of paper (from Ryan's personal stash, he noted with some affront) and, seizing his pen, scribbled out a message at what seemed to be warp speed. She shoved it into George's hand, and waited impatiently as he managed to get the other man to hang up. Ryan caught a glimpse; obviously there was no way to see all of what was written, but Nancy had written with so much pressure on the pen that the writing was pretty much clearly visible; one had only to have the concentration necessary to decipher it backwards. Ryan pretended to reach back for his pen and took the quickest look possible before falling back into his chair.

All he'd seen was, in Nancy's spiky handwriting, _15 Ros. Rd. Camelot._

Well, that was going to be a little tricky. There were a lot of road whose names began with Ros. There was Rosetown, Roswell, Rosstown, Rosedale…now that he thought about it, the whole district was rampant with rose-tehemed names. He had no idea why; that could be something to Google on a rainy day.

The street name was no help; but what about the Camelot? Wheels turned in his head as he pondered over the name; it sounded familiar.

"_There's Rosalie Parker," Sharpay pointed out with a giggle, raising a finger to indicate the tall blonde woman standing near the punch bowl._

_Ryan just looked around, unable to believe that he and his sister had been allowed to come to this party. Usually they were stuck at home and Sharpay was allowed to go shopping while their parents were gone, just to appease her. _

_But this time, the only shopping she'd done was for a dress to wear to the event. Ryan didn't even want to recall the torturous hours spent helping his sister find the perfect outfit._

_Sharpay was about ten times more excited to be here; she couldn't stop being in awe of the lavishness of the whole ordeal. She pointed out every single important person at the party as if Ryan didn't know them already, but he'd solved that problem by simply tuning her out. _

"_Whatever, Shar," he said, taking another drink of his punch. She didn't notice the unenthusiasm in his voice and continued to gush._

"_You know what they say about her, right?" She said, her voice low. Ryan shook his head._

"_Well, apparently she get a little…company, for those lonely nights when her husband's away." Sharpay smiled wickedly at her words. Ryan's eyes widened._

"_How do you know?" He asked, curious despite himself._

"_Dean told me. His friend's dad works at the Camelot, and apparently that's their lodging of choice." Sharpay giggled. _

Apparently, John Ramsey had decided to go the same route as Rosalie. Quickly, Ryan Mapquested the Camelot. Nancy was already making her way out; George watched her, looking completely distracted. Ryan returned to his homework. It would be a little too suspicious if he were to follow her out immediately, and since he knew where she was going anyway, it couldn't hurt to wait a little. George went back to his office, slamming the door, without saying a word.

But he could barely keep from just following Nancy out without saying a word to George; after a half an hour, he jumped up from his chair and went to his office, knocking on the door. He heard a muffled, "Come in," and opened the door.

He thanked whoever was responsible when he saw that George's attention was currently fixed on the papers strewn across his desk; he didn't even look up.

"Um, George?" A grunt in response. "I was wondering if maybe I could go home a little early today; I have this project to finish, and…" George looked up at him and nodded briefly. Ryan was a little hesitant, unable to believe that it was this easy, but then he realized it would be better not to linger lest George rethink his answer. He quickly left the room and, gathering his things into his bag, slung it over his shoulder and went out to his car.

Using the built-in GPS, he managed to find his way to the Camelot. He saw Nancy's car parked across the street from the building; he knew he'd have to be far enough away to see everything without being noticed. He had a clear enough view of the hotel from where he was; settling in, he began his wait.

And he sat there for four hours, with absolutely no devlopments. He'd finished his homework in between watching carefully for any sign of suspicious activity, but nothing came up.

Finally, he gave up; he started his car and was just about to pull into the street when he saw something that made his heart stop.

His mother came out of the front door of the motel, and at her side…was John Ramsey.

Ryan didn't waste a second; he stepped on the gas, and sped away; he didn't look anywhere but ahead. The image had burned into his brain, and he drove home in a haze of disbelief.

His father was home when he arrived. Only then did Ryan notice that not once in the three extra hours he'd been gone had he been called by his parents, asking him where he was. He winced as he thought of what his mother could have been dong instead.

He had taken two steps into the hall when his father came in, looking a little frantic. He spotted Ryan and his eyes narrowed into angry little slits; his teeth gritted. Ryan cringed a little; he'd never seen his father like this. He wondered what could be going on…

"Where the _hell _were you, Ryan?" He spat furiously. His hands were balled into fists; he looked positively livid. Ryan couldn't understand it; while he was known to get upset (as would be appropriate in this situation), he was never one to get _this_ angry. It was a little frightening; Ryan took an involuntary step back.

"You were supposed to be home three hours ago." He said. The next words that came out of Ryan's mouth seemed to be fueled by some source other than his own will, because he instantly regretted them.

"You didn't even call me. I thought you hadn't noticed." He was surprised at the bitterness in his tone; now he wanted nothing but to run upstairs and wait until his father's anger had cooled off, but he knew that would be less than simple. He almost thought he could see steam coming out of his father's ears; the redness of his face would have been comical had Ryan not been the object of his anger. He gulped quietly.

"Get upstairs." His father said flatly. Ryan was only too happy to oblige.

Although he did feel a little hungry, all thoughts of food were wiped from his mind. He felt as though his world had stood on its head. He was completely at a loss as to what to think; seeing his mother with John Ramsey brought up all sorts of awful possibilities. Was that why his father had been chasing after him? Why his mother had been gone the other night? Instead of driving, as she had claimed, had she been with_ him_? The thoughts made him feel sick; his vision blurred. He lay down on his bed, staring at his beside table. A picture of him and Sharpay, taken during the summer, stood facing him. The happiness of the faces in the picture almost drove him over the edge; he grabbed it and threw it, frame and all, into the small trash can by his bed.

He undressed, wanting nothing but to go to sleep; but as he was getting his pajamas on, there was a light knock at his door. He opened it; his father was standing there, looking apologetic and ashamed.

"Ryan, can I come in?" He stood back, clearing the way. Taking this as a yes, his father entered. Ryan saw his gaze linger on the photograph in the trash can before he turned back to him.

"I wanted to apologize for blowing up at you like that." His father said softly. Ryan looked on; he wanted to say it was okay, that he understood. But he was afraid he would add in the part that he couldn't bear for his father to hear. He said nothing.

"I was just worried. You know, I'm sorry I didn't call you but I honestly didn't even think about that." He approached Ryan, putting an arm around him. Ryan was surprised; his father rarely hugged him like this. He leaned into the hug a little bit; he felt his father tense under him.

"Are you going to tell me where you were?" Ryan looked up at him and shook his head lightly. He sighed. "Ryan…."

"Dad, I'm fine and that's what matters, right?" Ryan told him pleadingly. "I wasn't doing anything illegal." Well…at least, as far as he knew.

"All right, fine," his father relented. "But your mother needn't find out. She'll bite my head off for not hunting you down and dragging you home myself." Ryan couldn't laugh; all he could think of was the Camelot. He felt a painful throbbing in his chest.

"Okay, dad." He said quietly, pulling away from him.

He didn't know why. But the moment he saw his father reaching for the doorknob, he had a feeling that it would be now or never. He thought of his mother and suddenly, he felt an anger that made his blood boil. He couldn't let this happen; he couldn't let their lives be destroyed. And it was this determination which forced him to get the words out.

"Why are you following John Ramsey?" The words froze Bernard Evans to the spot. He turned to face Ryan, who felt very hot all of a sudden. His expression was one of utmost shock.

"What did you—." Ryan cut into the sheepish remark, his voice cold. "Why are you following John Ramsey? What did he do to you?"

It was a good minute before Ben could answer. He stood there, shellshocked, staring at his son, whose eyes were glinting with a fierce anger that he hadn't known was inside of him. He couldn't understand where it had come from; a small part of him, though, thought it might not have come from anywhere. It might have been there all along.

Ryan had been nothing but quiet and reserved since his sister's death. He and Elaine had been so stuck on the thought of their daughter's death that they'd barely had time to worry about this; but once everything had seemed to be standing on its own two feet, they'd done the only thing they could think of: they got him a grief counselor. Ryan was just grieving for his sister; talking to a professional would make him feel better and he would return to normal in no time.

They hadn't realized that under the quiet and introverted person their son had now become, there was something else. Anger. Ben didn't pretend to understand it, but it was painfully clear now. It had been contained inside him—maybe he hadn't even known it was there—but now it had come out. And no amount of counseling would get rid of that anger. It would have to run itself dry.

"Ryan, please try to understand….it's not easy to explain…" his father began imploringly.

"Then make me understand, dad. I'm not stupid," he cried. His father was taken aback at the strength of his tone.

"Say something!" Ryan demanded, after another minute of silence. His father shook his head.

"Ryan, listen to me. This is a very complicated situation…" And suddenly, Ryan understood. He saw sadness in his father's eyes; his voice sounded tired and was cracking as if he were holding back tears.

"This is about Sharpay." It wasn't a question.

"Ryan, please just…." And Ben gave up. He couldn't look Ryan in the eye like this and lie to him and tell him everything was fine. He wouldn't believe it. Maybe the Ryan that had once been would, but this boy standing in front of him was not the one he'd known all his life.

"Tell me, dad. Please." The word wasn't said pleadingly; in fact, Ryan's tone hardened. Ben felt like he was talking to a stranger, despite the fact that he was being called dad. This couldn't be his Ryan.

"I just can't, Ryan. Please trust me. Please." Ben told him, suddenly feeling very weak. He had to grip the doorframe to hold himself up.

"How can I trust you? You won't tell me, and I deserve to know. She was my sister, dad." Ryan's voice was quiet. And yet, somehow, it hurt Ben more than any amount of yelling could have done. He could hear all of the hurt that Ryan was feeling, and it only made him feel worse to know that he had caused it. But what could he do? He'd already lost one of his children, and he couldn't lose the other. The mere thought had been haunting him ever since Sharpay had been killed; it had frightened him into silence.

Ryan deserved the truth. And Ben had never denied his children what they deserved; but somehow, now, he knew he wouldn't be able to give Ryan what he wanted. Even if he told his son what he was really doing, it wouldn't make him happy or satisfied. Ben realized that nothing would ever be that simple again; what Ryan wanted wasn't what he needed. It would make him bitter and Ben didn't know if he could handle seeing more of this strange, angry boy taking the place of his son. He was lost. He didn't know what to do, what to say. He never knew; this was a problem that he couldn't fix simply by giving into Ryan's wishes. Ryan wouldn't accept it if he said it was better that he didn't know. Ben's throat tightened; his head was spinning. He had to get out; if Ryan said another word, he was sure he would tell him what he wanted to know and it would make everything so much worse. He reached for the doorknob, his hand shaking. He realized he was choking out sobs and that Ryan was calling his name faintly; but he sounded like he was miles away.

Ryan watched as his father stumbled out without another word, feeling strangely numb. He didn't know if it was the shock of seeing his father crumble like that, or if everything that had happened this evening was rushing back at once, but he simply…turned off. Sitting slowly down on his bed, he stared straight ahead of him.

His mind went blank. He didn't know how long he'd been sitting there, staring at the wall; he only knew that not a single thought had passed through his mind in that time. It was like he had been meditating—a process which he'd never been able to go through, since something always happened to drag him out of his relaxed state (that something was usually Sharpay, yelling for him to come do something for her that she was perfectly capable of doing on her own).

Sharpay…Ryan returned to Earth; if he had actually been physically falling, he had no doubt his impact would have been painful and made a very loud "thud"; but as it were, he felt as though he'd returned from an out-of-body experience. And suddenly, a thought occurred to him.

Apparently, his state had been some sort of meditation, because Ryan realized something. He understood, now, what he would have to do in order to fix everything. To make his father not be scared of him any more; to bring his family closer together. He realized that the only thing that could return things to the way they were was what had torn them apart in the first place.

A mere month after Sharpay's death, a man named Abel Koontz was arrested for her murder. At the time Ryan had barely registered it, but now it was there, staring him right in the face. Abel Koontz had been a secretary of his father's; he'd been fired after the discovery had been made that he was leaking secrets of their business to another party.

The story went that Abel Koontz had been so disgruntled by the loss of his job that he had taken retribution into his own hands; he'd gone over to the Evans' household and killed Sharpay in his anger. It was made out to be a crime which hadn't been reserved for her alone; if he or any other of the Evans family members had been home, he would probably have killed them instead.

When it had happened, Ryan hadn't had the presence of mind to question it. He thought his parents might have been relieved at that; there were no awkward questions to answer. The event was all over the news, but Ryan hadn't watched TV at all that month. He'd done very little other than stay up in his room and think. He didn't know what his parents had been up to, and he hadn't particularly cared. The only involvement he'd had in the situation was accidentally stumbling upon one of the maids who'd taken advantage of a break to catch the news; Ryan had barely heard her profuse apologies. His attention had been captured by what was on the screen.

"…_Deputy Don Lamb discovered a pair of shoes belonging to the deceased on Abel Koontz's boat only two weeks after her death." _

_The shoes, contained in a plastic evidence bag, were indeed Sharpay's; Ryan remembered that she had worn them to school the day she had died. They were her favorites. _

_Ryan reached for the remote as the news anchor continued to talk, switching off the television without saying a word. _

It all seemed too implausible. Abel Koontz, from the little he had seen of him, did not seem the type to commit murder left and right, but this was exactly how the newspapers had portrayed him. Ryan hadn't seen enough of the case to really understand it, but he knew that he didn't believe Abel Koontz could be the one who had killed his sister. It just didn't make sense.

But then, what did? Who had killed Sharpay? Ryan didn't know. But in that moment, sitting in his room, he resolved that he would find out who had killed his sister and that they would be brought to justice.

Maybe then everything would go back the way it was supposed to be.


	9. The First Cut is the Deepest

A/N: Hi peeps; I thought it was high time I put an author's note to let you guys know it's a person and not a machine typing away over here. ;-) I just wanted to say thanks for reading. It's nice to know someone is paying attention to my ramblings. Because while this story seems like it's going nowhere, there is no need to worry; I know exactly what I'm doing. (Okay, so it's easier because I based it on something else…) Ryan's still got a LOT coming for him. :D (It's not a good "lot", in case you didn't understand the implication of that smiley.) I also want to let people know that while I do mention Troyella here, I'm not a 'shipper. There is a very specific reason that I'm focusing so much on their relationship; you'll find that out later, since it's a HUGE plot point.

Hmm, what else. I guess that's it; I'm just asking that people have faith in me and keep with the story because while it seems a little rambling at points, I really do know where I'm going with this. I really appreciate your patience…:P

PS: This chapter is, as nobody says it, "mad long". I've been working on it forever, so I'm sorry about that and the fact that it's so late. Enjoooooooooy though!

CHAPTER SEVEN

It wasn't long before Ryan realized that in the course of one night, everything in his life had taken a sharp left turn. He woke up the next morning, blissfully aware that it was a Friday, and got dressed quickly; standing in front of his closet, he'd deliberated on whether or not to wear a hat. He decided it was getting a little warm; although he couldn't help but feel bare without one, he went ahead to get breakfast.

His mother was up, looking tired as she bent over a cup of coffee and a danish. She didn't even notice him come in; he called her name gently and she looked up at him, her eyes glinting with something he couldn't understand. He was aware of her eyes on him the entire time while he ate, although she didn't say a word. He kissed her cheek as he always did, grabbed his bag in the hallway by the stairs like he always did and went out to his car, like he always did…and he knew it wouldn't change anything. It was different. He had known that the minute he saw his mother, usually so together and energetic, looking the way she hadn't looked in over six months.

Ryan saw the missing car in the driveway; immediately, he pictured George's office in his mind and the thought made him cringe inwardly. It struck a chord in him that he couldn't identify, but that felt unpleasant all the same. He drove off to Sarah's.

She came down the driveway looking like he felt. Although the outfits she wore were usually the epitome of cuteness and style, today her skirt was rumpled, her shirt didn't fit as neatly on her body as it was supposed to; her hair was down and not tampered with. He had never seen such a phenomenon; as she approached him slowly, wearily, he unlocked the passenger door.

Her method of getting into his car was to basically jump in; but today, it took her all of a minute to simply get inside, one leg after the other, and sit, hands in her lap like she was afraid of being scolded. Ryan knew she expected him to say something; but he wasn't sure what to say. 'Why do you look like crap' tended not to be the most tactful of ways to phrase things. Sarah was staring directly into her lap; Ryan could tell she was waiting.

"Sarah, what's wrong?" He asked lamely. He was aware that it was the most banal way to ask, but it wasn't like he had a long range of choices. Sarah seemed satisfied, however, and looked up at him, her blue eyes mournful.

"I can't talk about it right now." She told him quietly. He didn't press; he'd hear everything at lunch.

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Ryan stared awkwardly. He didn't know what to do; there were tears pouring silently down Sarah's cheeks. She had barely begun to tell him what was wrong, and she had started crying.

He had never been much a nurturer; his upbringing had left him with little knowledge of how to make people feel better. He'd never seen someone be sad enough that they weren't instantly cheered by the prospect of a new toy or something of the sort. But he could tell that Sarah was feeling some sort of pain right now that he couldn't understand, and probably wouldn't understand even if she'd been able to tell him about it. So he didn't say a word, and he just watched her. It occurred to him that he might be able to comfort her by getting her some tissues; so he stood up and made his way over to the napkins.

As he pulled a wad of them out of the dispenser, he saw out of the corner of his eye, that one of the cheerleaders was watching him. Biting his lip, he quickly yanked out a couple more and hurried back to his seat; hopefully she wouldn't follow him.

A new phenomenon had begun in East High; Ask Ryan for Help. Ever since he had busted Logan Rooks, he had had countless people come up to him, wondering if they could "ask him a favor". Most of those people were looking for evidence of relationship troubles; these were the ones he turned down more harshly. Some of them actually had interesting cases, and he wavered in between accepting and refusing. In the end, though, the cons won out. It wasn't that he wasn't intrigued by the prospect of solving the cases. But the fact that the vast majority of those who wanted his help were people he hadn't spoken to (not even before) and who, for the most part, had to put in a lot of effort to contain the worry that they felt, always trying to inconspicuously watch for their friends. If they did see anyone, they would immediately turn and walk away without so much as a goodbye. So Ryan felt little incentive to use the limited range of abilities he'd picked up from George's office to help them.

Sarah claimed she couldn't understand it; that only pure luck had led to him being able to figure out what Logan was up to. Ryan tended to say he agreed, although he didn't mention that thanks to his secretarial duties, he was fairly confident that he would be able to figure out how to effectively plant a bug or lie his way into getting access to something (of course, his experience helped him do it without so much as a telling flinch). Surveillance was certainly not in his realm of possibilities; while his car was black, it was a little too upscale to be unnoticed for upwards of an hour. The Camelot was an exception; they were used to having clients who were a little higher on the social ladder coming for "company".

And anyway, the fact of the matter was that he didn't need the money that they offered him. This, combined with everything else, cemented his determination not to accept any of the cases his fellow students offered. Sarah had seemed pleased to hear it, but she tried to hide that from him. It didn't work.

As he handed her the napkins, she gave him a watery smile which was supposed to show him that she was fine. He wasn't fooled. He watched her, waiting patiently; trying to tell her with his eyes that he was ready to hear what she had to say when she was ready to talk. She seemed to understand; taking a few deep breaths, she wiped her eyes. Ryan looked up to see that the cheerleader who'd been watching him had disappeared; he let out a relieved sigh.

"What are you looking at?" Sarah's voice was a little hoarse, but she still sounded curious. Ryan shook his head lightly.

"Nothing." He looked at her seriously. "Are you okay now?"

"Yeah. I'm sorry; I just kinda lost control. It's been a little bit crazy…" she trailed off.

"What's going on?" Ryan asked. He knew it was a little too forward, but he was tired of beating around the bush. He had never been able to do that for long.

"My mother is back." Sarah told him quietly.

He tried not to look too confused, but he really didn't know to react. Obviously the return of her mother was not a good thing, but she'd never even mentioned the woman; Ryan had assumed she'd died.

"She wants to live with us. My dad said we might have to move." Sarah told him, tears welling up in her eyes again. Ryan couldn't think of a thing to say; what if Sarah did have to move?

The thought saddened him. If she left, everything would go back to the way it had been last year, and he would have no one. It was selfish of him to be thinking of this, but he couldn't help it. He needed Sarah to be here. And the worst of it was that he knew that if this threat hadn't come along, he wouldn't have realized it. He reached out and took Sarah's hand as if he were afraid she would disappear; she looked at him strangely, and he let go, chastising himself for his strange notions.

"What are you going to do?" Ryan asked her. Sarah's shoulder slumped, defeated.

"I don't know, Ryan. I mean…she's my mother, but I can't let her stay with us. I just can't. I know it won't end well." Sarah bit her thumbnail anxiously. Ryan wished he could read minds; maybe then he would have the vaguest idea how to handle this situation. He didn't want to start in on how she couldn't leave, that she had to stay, because that was obviously not the problem. Well, it was…but it wasn't that fact which was making Sarah more panicked by the minute. Awkwardly, he reached out for her hand again, giving it a light squeeze. She smiled at him. Ryan noticed that some of the neighboring tables were starting to stare and he heard someone yell something, but the only thing he understood was his name. He ignored them.

"You wanna get out of here?" He asked. She practically jumped up.

They spent the rest of their lunch in the boys' bathroom---Ryan had again barricaded it, and he couldn't help grinning whenever he heard a vehement curse leave someone's mouth when they saw the Out of Order sign he'd hung up. Sarah was just looked around, her eyes huge. She stared at the urinals like they were some sort of mutated beast and shied away from them, going to sit against the wall; and even then, she inched forward so as not to touch it too much.

"The walls aren't poisonous, Sarah," Ryan pointed out, amused. She just gave him a look.

"Excuse me if I'm a little skittish when it comes to bacteria-infested restroom facilities. It's bad enough in the girls' room but who knows what guys do in here?" She looked disgusted at the images that her statement brought up, both in her mind and Ryan's.

"I'm all for pretending not to understand the double-entendre." Ryan offered. She nodded solemnly. He sat beside her.

Neither of them said much, being lost in thought. Sarah seemed calmer, and now she was probably pondering the question of what to do about her mother. Ryan couldn't imagine having to estrange himself from his parents; he thought of his mother and his father, how they had always been so caring and, although Sharpay commanded most of their attention, they'd always made sure he was okay too. For the second time, Ryan realized just how much they meant to him. He thought of how his mother had looked that morning and how his father had acted the night before.

"What did she do?" He asked in a whisper. Sarah looked at him, and Ryan saw that she understood. Her gaze was concentrated on the tile floor.

"She left us." A pause. "It began a year ago," she said hesitantly. "My mom and dad were fighting a lot; she was worried he was going to lose his job."

"Why?" Ryan asked. Sarah tensed up.

"I don't know. He was arguing with his boss. He didn't think he was doing the right thing. My mom told him he was being stupid, but my dad didn't listen to her."

"Eventually his boss did get tired of him and fired him. My mom got so angry that she left and we moved here," she finished.

"What was he doing that was so bad?" Ryan asked, surprised. He hadn't heard of someone being fired because they wouldn't stop pestering their boss…

Sarah looked up at him briefly; he could tell she was debating whether or not to tell him. She clenched her fists and spoke up, still sounding unsure of herself. "Back in June, when…your, um…when your sister…" She clenched her teeth. The next word, the word Ryan was dreading, sounded as if she'd physically forced it out. "Died. When she died, basically every newspaper in Arizona was scrambling to cover it as thoroughly as possible. My dad worked on the paper in Phoenix." She stopped there, looking at him. He didn't notice; all his attention had been focused on her words, and he felt a little hypnotized. Seeing this, she continued. "He thought that they were being too invasive. His editor wanted to get his hands on any available pictures, and he assigned my dad to track them down…and my dad refused." She opened her mouth as if she were going to say something else, but then closed it.

Ryan was thrown back into a memory. Sometime in mid-July, he had a vague recollection of his father, who had been pestered by phone-calls almost nonstop. Ryan knew they weren't from press; his father made sure he was protected against them. The calls were from his representatives, all of whom were vying to be the first to let him know that a paper in Arizona had somehow gotten access to police photographs from the crime scene that had been kept under lock and key from the moment they'd developed. His father had been absolutely furious; he'd demanded that the newspaper cease all coverage of the matter and had threatened to sue if anything else came up. They never got the photographs back, but they had not surfaced anywhere since. All of the representative staff was watching any forms of media like a hawk to see the tiniest slipup.

As far as he knew, the effort had been for the most part abandoned. Ryan couldn't help but feel a little awkward, sitting here with the person who was…indirectly…the cause of all that fuss. Sarah was beginning to redden, realizing his discomfort. Ryan smiled at her reassuringly. He felt relieved when the bell rang, signaling the end of lunch.

Sarah told him not to pick her up after school; Ryan was glad. He needed some time away from her, to think. The revelation that she'd made, however small, was still important. It called back scenes from a period that he could barely remember; and the more he thought about this time, the more he began to see bits and pieces that he'd never noticed before. The way that Sharpay's room had remained open throughout all the ceremonies, and he'd spent nights staring from across the hall. He could see himself clearly in the mirror of her vanity (he used to joke about how the name was oh-so-appropriate for a piece of furniture which belonged to her), the lights around which still lit up and turned off according to the timer she'd set for them. It was unbearable, but the one and only time he'd tried to shut the door he'd felt like the doorknob had burned him when he touched it.

The door had never been locked; to this day, it stood closed. Ryan had commissioned a servant to do it for him, trying to ignore the strange look she gave her upon receiving this order. It was no news to him that some of the help believed him to be a little unstable since Sharpay's death. He wondered why this was such a common theory; as far as he knew, crazy people did extreme things in light of their recent traumas. He might have been blanking on some of the details but he was fairly sure he'd never pulled any of his hair out or set anything on fire or refused to eat.

In the hallway, he'd narrowly avoided a collision with a harried-looking girl who he thought must be the stage manager for the musical; she was carrying a clipboard and flipping through the pages frantically, and he heard her mutter under her breath something that sounded like "Darbus is going to kill me". He couldn't help but say a quick prayer for the girl as she passed.

He was early to Biology; his teacher was still shuffling some papers around on his desk, and the writing on the board pertained to his last class. Ryan hovered in the doorway; he hated it when he was faced with this dilemma. In the end he thought he might as well go in; and then he instantly regretted this idea. For what he'd mistaken as an…object…was in fact a sleepy-looking jock who was leaning his head on the basketball which seemed to be semi-permanently affixed to his arm. Ryan cringed and tried to be as quiet as possible. If he got a seat far enough away, Chad would hopefully be too weary and not recognize him. Not so; Mr. Clemmons chose this moment to accidentally drop his textbook. Without thinking, Ryan shot him a glare which he quickly wiped off his face as soon as the man turned towards him.

Chad's head shot up, and Ryan was impressed, despite himself, at how quickly he could put on an attentive face. He had chosen a seat from which he could see Chad but he was a little obscured. Chad looked around, bewildered, for the source of the noise; finding none, he proceeded to grumble at the fact that he'd been awakened for naught.

"Mr. Danforth, I hope this is the last of your lunchtime detentions." Mr. Clemmons told him warningly. "Now if you would please find some more appropriate place to put that basketball," he began, as he did every class. Ryan already knew what Chad was going to say.

"But Mr. Clemmons, it doesn't fit in my locker…" he began feebly. Sighing, Mr. Clemmons nodded toward the back of the room. Chad got up to put his basketball away in the cupboard like he always did; Ryan watched him, confident he would not be noticed. Chad didn't even glance his way. He sighed with relief when he saw another jock swagger into the room, calling out a loud greeting to Chad, who responded in kind.

And, of course, one of the last to arrive was Troy. He didn't swagger, but there was still something about the way he walked easily into the room a few seconds before the bell with a wide grin on his face, as if he expected the whole class to greet him in chorus. (Which it more or less did. Ryan simply rolled his eyes and took out his notebook.)

Since most of the seats were occupied, Troy made his way over to a table near the back. He sat about a foot and a half away from Ryan, whose back was against the counter on which all the supplies had been arranged. It was only then that he noticed the tools that had been placed on each table; he paled.

Although Mr. Clemmons had been constantly reminding them that they were going to do a dissection lab today, somehow it had completely slipped Ryan's mind. He would be forced to dissect in a very expensive, albeit simple, black shirt and his equally if not more expensive jeans. He had to keep himself from groaning aloud; he was sure everyon eels in the room had already caught on to his dilemma, from the way some of them were looking at him.

"Looks like he's gonna have to get a little dirty," snickered a light-haired boy who was sitting at Chad's table.

"I'm sure he won't mind that," Chad responded quietly, adding in a mocking wink. Ryan merely scowled in response, turning around to see if there was anything he could use to cover his jeans, at least. It made him long for the days when he would have been able to get a pass on the assignment due to Sharpay's insistence that her outfit could not be ruined. In the end, he decided he might as well not give them any more ammo. So he sat, pretending to be unaffected as he listened Mr. Clemmons explain what they were going to be doing. He tried to block out all other thoughts by watching him show them the eye they were going to be dissecting—Ryan refused to feel nauseated.

Oh, hell. He was going to be sick, and he knew it. As he held the scalpel, trying to steady his grip, he heard wet sounds all around him which only made it worse. Finally he gathered up the strength of mind to make a tiny cut; he tried to ignore the voice in his mind that insisted on chanting_ I don't want to do this I'm going to be sick This is so disgusting…_he heard a wet plop come from somewhere around him and looked around for the source of the noise. Apparently he was not the only one, for a peal of laughter broke through the classroom as each student saw what was happening.

Far be it from Chad to actually do what he was told; he had been busily engaged in lobbing bits of cow-eye at Troy. The latter merely rolled his eyes and grinned at his friend's antics, wiping the bits off his shirt and hair. "Quit it, Chad," he protested. Mr. Clemmons cleared his throat and glared pointedly at Chad, looking over the top of his book. He turned back to his work and the class lapsed into silence again.

Ryan managed to make some headway, although he could hear the occasional snicker that he knew was meant for him. He looked up and saw the same light-haired boy watching him, his eyes mocking. Shaking his head, the boy bowed back down over his work. Ryan glanced over at the paper Mr. Clemmons had given them, which had a drawing of the eye with arrows pointing to the parts he was supposed to identify and describe. He cringed inwardly at the words he had to use; "spongy", "soft"…he was so absorbed in his work he almost didn't notice something land on his arm. With a horrified squeak, he flicked away the eye-bit that had obviously been misfired; but it seemed to amuse Chad even more.

"Sorry, that's probably dry-clean only, right?" He asked with false concern. Ryan didn't even dignify this with a response, although yes, it _was_ dry-clean only and his mother would probably have a fit if he came home with animal-goo on his clothes. Or maybe she wouldn't…

"OW! Jesus…" Ryan and everyone else in the room jumped at Troy's loud exclamation. "Chad, you dumbass…" for once, the other boy actually looked sorry. Ryan saw, with a slight churn of his stomach, that there was a particularly large piece of eyeball lying on the table by Troy, and it was…bloody. It took a moment for him to realize that Troy was the one who was bleeding, from a cut in his hand, it seemed. Ryan looked around; grabbing a handful of paper towels from the dispenser behind him, he sprang into action.

Troy didn't even notice who handed him the paper towels; he pressed them to his hand, hissing in pain. Chad had come over and was looking guiltily on; as well he should. Mr. Clemmons had come over, looking positively livid. His face was a little red, his eyes narrowed as he looked at Chad, who took the hint and slunk quietly back to his desk. Meanwhile, Ryan stood awkwardly at Troy's side. Mr. Clemmons asked to see the damage and then sighed, telling Troy to go to the nurse. After a moment in which Ryan was trying to make his way back to his desk before he could be asked what he thought Mr. Clemmons was going to ask, the fateful words rang out. "Why don't you go with him, Mr. Evans?" Mentally he thought up all sorts of arguments, but he walked over to the door where Troy was standing amidst catcalls from his classmates.

He stood a few feet apart from Troy as they headed down to the nurse; to his annoyance, Troy announced the need for more paper towels, so they made a detour at the boys' bathroom, where Ryan went in obligingly and got him a wad of paper towels. This time, Troy smiled appreciatively.

"What I don't understand is how you cut yourself_ that_ badly." Ryan said, in a tone which was meant to sound condescending. Troy didn't notice. Shocker.

"Chad aimed for my face. I got distracted," Troy answered with a little laugh that made Ryan have to resist the urge to roll his eyes.

"Oh," he said in response. Troy shook his head.

"He is such an idiot sometimes," he said affectionately. Ryan didn't say anything; hopefully Troy would get the hint and stop talking about him. They walked on in silence for about another five minutes; just as they reached the nurse's office, Troy stopped suddenly, turning to face him. Ryan was genuinely confused although he did his best to hide it. Troy looked completely serious now, almost a little sad. It was very strange.

"Do you ever think about the way things used to be?" The question threw Ryan off completely; for a moment, his response was going to be: _Yes, I do. And sometimes I wish with everything I have that it could go back to being the way it was, and it hurts like nothing I've ever felt when I realize that it can't ever be like that again. Not with everything that's happened. _

"Not really, no," he answered shortly. Troy lowered his eyes and walked into the office. Ryan followed him in; after all, thiswas time away from the dissecting lab.

"Oh, my," one of the nurses stopped the conversation she'd be having cold when she took in the sight of the bloody paper towels; she and her assistant scrambled to look at the injury. Ryan sat, trying not to look as they uncovered the cut and examined it, tutting. One of them headed over to the PA system and sent out a message asking Jack Bolton to report to the nurse's office.

Troy's hand was wrapped in gauze, although the nurse said he would need stitches. Ryan was surprised; had he really cut himself that deeply? He saw the bloody paper towels lying on the desk. They were soaked through. Chad really was an idiot. Troy thanked them, and tried to move his hand, although all it did was cause him pain. He winced. The nurse told him to wait for his father, who, Ryan guessed, would probably go into conniptions once he saw the state of his hand.

And so it was; Jack Bolton demanded loudly what had happened to Troy, who tried to calm his father down. He avoided mentioning that it was entirely Chad's fault, for which Ryan was a little disappointed. It would have been fun to see what Coach Bolton would do to him for jeopardizing the possibility of Troy's playing.

Because as far as Ryan could tell, that seemed to be his main concern. Sure, he had questioned Troy on how bad the injury was and whether he would be OK for the rest of the day, but he'd followed them up before Troy could answer by asking if he could move his hand. Ryan couldn't help being a bit disgusted by his one-track mind, although he knew it wasn't entirely his fault. Being brainwashed by sports was not an easy thing to combat.

It took a couple of minutes but he finally noticed Ryan, who was sitting with his arms crossed. He wasn't really sure why he'd stayed here but it was a bit late to think of that now.

"If it weren't for Ryan's reflexes I'd be a mess right now," Troy informed his father, grinning. Jack seemed pleased.

"Well, thank you for your help, Ryan." He said, nodding, his voice showing his discomfort more than his expression.

"You're welcome." Ryan answered. "Look, I gotta go back to class…are you coming, Troy?" He asked, trying to sound like he was interested in his answer.

"Uh, I'm not sure if I can take much more dissection today." Troy said uncertainly.

"That's okay, son. We'll have you dismissed and we can go to the hospital and get you those stitches." Jack said, putting an arm around Troy's shoulders. Ryan nodded and left, noticing but not reacting to the small smile Troy had given him. He couldn't help feel a twinge of pain, but he wasn't sure where he felt it, or why he did.

The rest of Biology was a drag. Chad had been subdued by the consequences of his stupidity and was quietly doing his work; nobody batted an eyelash as Ryan quietly entered the room and went over to Mr. Clemmons, recapping what had been said in the nurses' office. (Excluding the part where the two women had berated the practice of biology and all affiliated with it.) He thanked Ryan quietly; he still looked a little shaken. He was probably afraid of the backlash he would get from being the one indirectly responsible for handicapping the basketball star of their school. It only went to show how obsessed people were in this school, Ryan thought, irritated. Nobody except him and Chad (for all his bad points, and there were a lot, he looked as if he were genuinely worried for his friend) seemed to have realized that Troy had been lucky, since he still HAD motor function in his hand. He attacked the cow-eye with a little more energy than necessary, but he had to get his frustrations out on something. Stab. Stupid Jack and his stupid unhealthy perspective on his only child's injuries…stab…stupid everyone in his class who'd laughed at him for being worried about his clothes…stab. Mr. Clemmons called that it was time to clean up; Ryan was relieved. Another hour of this torturous prison sentence served.

Troy Bolton's injury went from a cut on the back of the hand to the loss of two or three fingers; Ryan's involvement (which he had thought nobody had noticed due to the calamitous situation taking place at the time) had gone from unnoticed paper-towel provider to the cause or even sometimes the selfsame perpetrator of the offense. He was grateful for once that Troy seemed to be as a god in the eyes of East High, because the focus seemed to be entirely on him. Naturally, the words he heard most often were "do you think he'll still play?" and he had to suppress the inexplicable anger he felt every time he heard them. These people didn't understand; even the ones who'd been told the extremely beefed-up version of the story would not so much as blink when they thought about the missing digits on the boy's left hand.

"So word on the street is you maimed a basketball player today," was Sarah's reaction to the buzz. She had been waiting for him at his locker; he said nothing, giving her a dirty look. She shook her head, grinning. "I'm guessing that's a little creative license someone took?"

"A little, yes," Ryan responded testily as he methodically arranged his books in his bag. "And you're just_ dying _for the details," he said knowingly. She tried to hide the eagerness in her eyes but he'd already seen it plainly.

"If you must know, Troy cut_ himself_ by _accident_," (Ryan felt in necessary to add in this particular detail after hearing a certain account of the incident.) "And all I did was hand him paper towels, which, I'll have you know, went unappreciated." Sarah smiled, amused.

"The nerve of some people. Good paper-towelers are hard to come by." She said airily, skipping along beside him as he made his way over to English. Ryan looked at her occasionally; really looked. He could see from his vantage point that although her eyes and her mouth were smiling, there were too many lines on her forehead and her hands seemed to be wringing ceaselessly. An unknown impulse in him drove him to put an arm around her; she stared at him for a moment, surprised, but her look softened. They walked on like this and for once Ryan could say he had truly not heard what others might have been saying about him. The only thoughts in his head were of the little blonde at his side; it hurt him to see her so obviously perturbed. But what could he do? It wasn't his place to interfere…not yet, anyway. He wondered, though…

Ever since he had began working at George's private investigation office, Ryan had learned a lot. Not just about private investigating, but about George himself; and Nancy and Keith, too, although they were in and out most of the time.

He hadn't realized how much he missed George's company; when he and Sharpay had been little he had basically been their acting chauffeur and bodyguard. He went everywhere with them. As they grew older, though, and as the years caught up with George, they saw less and less of him. But Ryan had been too wrapped up in his and Sharpay's lives to really notice. They had started to be driven around by a formal chauffeur. They had dance lessons and a voice instructor and acting lessons just like they had always had. Pretty soon, they forgot about him entirely (and the rest of the staff, as a matter of fact) when they were able to get themselves around town. Perhaps this stemmed from the fact that their parents had barely been able to keep track of them with all of the things they had in their schedules; either way, their independence gained, they went out into the world without looking back.

Ryan had been so surprised when he saw George; really saw him, for the first time in years. His hair was grey where Ryan remembered it being thick and brown (once, when Ryan had sprained his ankle during rehearsal in third grade, George had carried him and he'd tried to grab onto something and ended up fisting his hair) and he'd looked a lot…heavier. Not just in weight (although he had put on a few pounds) but it seemed like he was being crushed under something; it took him awhile to figure out what it was.

He learned that the weight had changed George completely; but that was understandable. Being asked to investigate your former charge's murder could not be easy.

And that was the third thing he'd learned; well, not so much learned as come to a realization about. It only made sense that his father would turn to George. And it only made sense that George would subsequently go to such lengths to keep Ryan from knowing about it. He knew Nancy and Keith were also being roped into this; and finally, he knew John Ramsey had something to do with his sister's murder.

But the most important things, the things that he needed to know, still escaped him. Ryan had felt in the past few days that the need to find out exactly what had happened at Shelly Pomroy's party was even more prominent in him, as he caught snippets of depraved jocks discussing sex and…well, other things. That usually led to sex. Once he'd heard much more than he would ever like to know about certain girls' "capabilities" and had to fight the urge to stare at them whenever he came across them in the hall (one girl had asked him why he was looking at her like she was 'a dead mouse or something'). He'd reddened; he supposed the atmosphere around which he'd grown up had led to his being a little more right-wing (or at least, afking it well enough)…he always got a kick out of the irony.

It wasn't like the entire night was a complete blank. Ryan was helpfully reminded by his fellow students what he had been doing earlier on in the party…but the fact that they did so with about the seriousness and respectfulness that one would use for a five-year-old, say, if they asked why the sky was blue, made him doubt that their words were anything other than spite. And he doubted it would be any better if they really knew what had happened to him.

He hadn't told anyone. He knew his parents could probably stand to hire a few professionals who could probably find some way to discover the culprit, but somehow he didn't think that the entire male half of the junior class would appreciate being accused of rape.

_When his mother came to the door, Ryan made an effort to smile. But his muscles seemed to be frozen; the most he could manage was a little twitch. He was holding his hand in his hands, twirling it endlessly, flipping it over, practically tearing at the fabric in his distraction. _

_He was surprised to see that the person who answered was not in a blue uniform; Elaine Evans was standing there, beaming, although she did look concerned. "Ducky! There you are, where have you been all day?"_

_She didn't know that he'd left the house yesterday evening. She had been at a dinner party with his father; Ryan hadn't told them he was going to Shelly Pomroy's party. The Evans' and the Pomroys were not exactly on the best of terms. _

"_I woke up early and decided to go out for breakfast," he lied smoothly, trying to make himself stop fidgeting with the hat; his mother's eyes were following his movements. She seemed to hesitate a little before answering._

"_Hmm. Well, come inside." She moved out of the way and he walked in, slowly. He looked around; the furniture was all the same. Everything was the same, which was odd. He felt like it should all be different. He felt like __**he**__ should be different. But his mther hadn't said anything, and his mother knew everything about him. She would have noticed. _

"_How was the party, Mom?" He asked. He wasn't' really interested in the answer; he just wanted his mother to look at him again. So he could tell if she still saw Ryan. _

_She had been engaged in looking into the hall mirror and patting her hair down smooth; but she turned around at the sound of his voice. "It was fine," she said, in a voice that was less enthusiastic than even the words had been. "But your father had a little too much champagne and well, you know how he gets." _

_Ryan reddened on her behalf. His father may have been very much in control of his actions when sober but when he had something to drink it usually changed into him discussing things that were better left unsaid. He could only imagine the topics of conversation he had chosen._

"_I hope we didn't wake you when we came in, dear." His mother continued, looking at him anxiously. _

_**No, you didn't**__. Ryan thought. __**Because I was fast asleep in someone else's bed. **__He just smiled. _

"_Darling, I hate to leave right in the middle of a conversation but unless I'm at the office in," she glanced briefly at her slim watch, "exactly thirteen minutes, I feel sure there's going to be mass chaos." So saying, she kissed him on the forehead and made her way out the door, her heels clicking against the wood floor. _

_Ryan rushed upstairs the moment he heard her car pull out of the driveway. He stayed in the shower for an hour and a half, most of which was spent just standing there feeling the hot water on his skin. His eyes were bloodshot when he got out._

This scenario replayed itself in his head more often than he'd like. Right now, as he was sitting at his desk in George's office, struggling to concentrate on Calculus (easier said than done, by far) while keeping an ear out for calls, it was particularly vivid; for a moment or two Ryan felt the same helplessness he had felt then. But it was replaced by thoughts of cosines and imaginary numbers…and an idea which left him as breathless as if he'd just finished a two-mile sprint.

He'd often looked, at idle moments, around at his classmates, and the question would put itself in his head: what if he did it? It came around most often when he saw members of the baseball team…or the basketball team. It wasn't surprising; Health class had put statistics into his head and he knew that acquaintance rape was far more common than assault by someone unknown. But he had to admit, it was painful sitting there are wondering which of these boys was capable of having sex with someone while the other party was unconscious. Would it be the ones laughing and smiling in the corner with their friends? The ones bent over their homework, hurriedly trying to finish so they wouldn't have anything to do after school? The ones listening to their iPods instead of the teachers, mouthing off whenever they were scolded? Eventually he would have enough; he asked permission to go to the bathroom, glad when the teacher didn't comment on the fact that he'd been missing for half an hour.

Calculus class was the worst. Almost all of the boys in that class had been in classes with him before, and he had talked to all of them at least once. His head bent over his notebook, he would try to get the image of ten neon arrows pointing down at the heads of the unsuspecting students.

Shutting his book in frustration (he hadn't been able to figure out the problem anyway), he slammed it onto his desk and reached down to get something easier out of his bag; maybe some History homework.

Thankfully, reading about the Quakers (and laughing quietly at pictures of what people wore back then) got his mind off things. He had had a brief flashback to when he had been in a play that was set in 1789, but he suppressed that quickly enough.

It took him a few minutes to realize he was being watched. He got that feeling in his spine, the one which told him that somebody's eyes were on him, and he raised his neck, which was now stiff. By the time he looked, though, the feeling was gone, but he'd distinctly heard the sound of a door slamming shut down the hallway. He set his book aside and got up, walking over to where Nancy and Keith's offices were; both doors were closed, but Ryan noticed Nancy's was open just a fraction, as if it had been closed from a distance (say, about two feet away, at a desk) and had lost momentum before going all the way.

He reached up a hand to knock, but the sound of another door slamming reached his ears…George was coming down the hallways, leaning heavily on his cane and looking rather unpleasant.

"Ryan, get back to your desk, please. You do have some work to do." It was only then that he remembered the small pile of papers he'd been given and asked to file away…nodding, he smiled apologetically and returned to his desk, but not before looking back at Nancy's door (which was now closed all the way).

Work went by very slowly. Every time a call came in, he quickly looked up at the clock to see if it was almost time to leave, but found there was a maximum of ten minutes between that call and the previous one. He actually groaned aloud at one point, which startled the caller (as she'd been in the middle of describing her husband's behaviors).

He got home to find both of his parents there, and both of them were sitting in the same room. He made his way to the kitchen to find them sitting at the table, silent, both drinking what looked like coffee. They jumped when they saw him, and his father gave a crooked smile that he guessed was supposed to look casual.

"Son." Something in the tone of his father's voice made Ryan grit his teeth, ball his hands into fists and close his eyes, almost as if against a full-body attack. He couldn't do this anymore. He had tried to tell his father but he wouldn't listen, and he was just so sick of it. He turned on his heel and walked out of the kitchen, trying to ignore the call that his father sent after him.


	10. A Thousand Words

A/N: Hey again, folks. I'm author's-noting, sorry. But it's brief!

If you guys want to know where I get my inspiration, here's a list of songs to put you into the mood of this story (aka depressing and tawdry).

We Used to be Friends (The Dandy Warhols)

Oedipus (Regina Spektor)

Almost Lover (A Fine Frenzy) (weird, I know…)

The Way You Are (46bliss)

Edge of the Ocean (Ivy)

All Good Things (Nelly Furtado)

If you want the full list, let me know. 

CHAPTER EIGHT

He hadn't spoken to his parents in over two weeks.

It wasn't as hard as it sounded; their house was fairly large and he made a point of sitting at the opposite end of the table during dinner. His parents had stopped trying to convince him. In fact, it seemed like they were almost trying to avoid each other as well. Nobody talked to one another; dinner rarely lasted longer than fifteen minutes.

Then there was the fact that they were more and more periods of time where they seemed to disappear altogether, either both at once or one by one. His mother was gone the most; his father holed himself up in his office during these times. Ryan kept himself busy with homework, which was rapidly accumulating, talking to Sarah, and keeping an eye and ear out for any interesting information.

George, Nancy and Keith had started treating him differently. He knew it could only be because they knew he wasn't completely in the dark anymore, but now they seemed to make himself scarce when he was around, as if they were afraid he would grab them and shake out what they knew when they least expected it. Whenever someone left the building, they did so discreetly enough that he didn't realize it. It was frustrating, at first…but his perspective began to change.

He'd almost forgotten that Nancy had been there too when he'd found his mother with John Ramsey. Sometimes, when he realized that she had gone out, he would wonder if she was waiting, at that very moment, to see if Elaine Evans would still be there…and at points, he was tempted to follow, but he knew he'd never get away with it. They were all finely attuned to his previous venture.

As the weeks went on, a pattern made itself very clear.

His parents were growing steadily apart. They barely made eye contact with each other, and if they did they would instantly withdraw from it. At the same time, Nancy's outings became more and more frequent…while Keith's did not. He didn't know why there was a preference, but it was very evident, even if Keith was just as elusive as his colleague.

Ryan couldn't explain what was going on with himself. Ever since he'd stopped talking to his parents, he'd started doing something else entirely. It had taken him awhile to figure out how to work a bug, but once he'd gotten the basics of it, he purchased one (from home, of course). He hadn't even really thought about where he was going to put it; but somehow, when came home one day and he saw the box sitting outside his door, he made his decision.

He figured that when he wasn't there, Keith and Nancy probably spent a lot of time in his desk area. So one day, he'd waited for the perfect time (both of them had left the office) and carefully set about thinking where he could place his new toy that three skilled detectives wouldn't look.

He'd almost had a heart attack when he'd heard the door open as he was deliberating; Nancy came in, walking past him without so much as a glance. He let out a breath and continued his work.

That had been the most terrifying thing he'd done so far; sure, a normal person would probably consider lying to authority the most terrifying thing, but he knew that all he had to do was focus on what he had to say, and the rest would fall into place. This, however, was uncharted territory. It seemed like the most obvious thing to do in the first place, but it wasn't obvious to someone who'd never done it before in his life and didn't know if he'd been discreet enough in choosing a hiding place.

The bug lasted about a week. Strangely, after a night of lost sleep over what would happen the next day, he'd been pleasantly surprised. Nobody said a word about it; and yet, when he looked, it was gone. Well, subtlety was a key point in this trade.

He hadn't learned much from it anyway. Not information-wise; but he'd had a great deal of insight into the conflicts that were arising in the office itself.

"_How was your night?" Keith's sarcastic voice was heard, as was the clinking of a cup (presumably his trademark coffee). _

"_It was fine. Is George around?" Nancy asked, her tone evasive._

"_Nope. You should put those photos away, though. Never know what might happen."_

"_Mind your own business. Don't you have, like, some dropout to kick back into shape or something?"_

"_Well, yeah. But I'm waiting for word on which hotel he's at before I go convince him that his parents are not going to disown him for dropping out of college." _

"_Good luck with that. I'm sure the rewards will be immense."_

"_Yeah well, I'm a simple guy. Don't really feel the need to stick my nose where it doesn't belong."_

"_Boy, did you pick the wrong career."_

"_Is that what you think? Cause I'm pretty sure being a P.I. doesn't exempt you from listening to your boss, so you're gonna have to eat those words."_

"_Being a P.I. is about doing what's right. And I'm fairly certain that what's right is not---George, there you are…"_

The remaining minute of that conversation revolved around photos she'd taken. Nancy mentioned that "it" "didn't seem to be getting any better", but this obviously didn't help open up any new windows of understanding. It was the most revealing thing he'd gotten; apparently he had been wrong in his decision to place the bug up in the front.

He hadn't seen any new pictures, unsurprisingly. He was being given a lot less to file than he used to be; he almost felt like his presence was unnecessary. And yet neither George nor his parents informed him of any desire to have him stop working there. It seemed like they were trying to keep him somewhere for the few hours he worked, and he had no doubt that they were. But he couldn't just stop showing up…so what was he going to do?

The answer he came up with was shocking even to him. A tiny part of his brain, when faced with the dilemma, presented the idea: _make it worth your while. _Thus was born his newest inclination; he would dig through the file cabinet (subtly of course). But, he found, nothing of real worth was _in _this file cabinet. He would have to find somewhere else; somewhere that was sure to have recent updates and a wealth of information…Nancy's office.

Again, a part of him was a little wary about the simplicity of it all. Nancy's door was locked but lock picking was not a hard skill to learn, and he could do it quietly enough to not attract attention. Feeling adrenaline course through his veins, he carefully used his credit card to turn the lock and entered the room, closing the door silently behind him.

It was a neat office, plain and organized. This was a great help. Ryan, blood pounding in his ears, looked at what was on the desk; there were no photographs. So he reached for the drawer handle, quietly, and pulled it out, wincing as it squeaked and suddenly being brought back to what exactly he was doing. He couldn't believe he was in here, looking through an adult's things…but the thought of the pictures came up in his mind and he pulled with a little more force. He appeared to have hit the jackpot; there seemed to be nothing but pictures in here. Without thinking of the fingerprints or anything, he began to rifle through them. He saw picture after picture of the Camelot, and several different cars…towards the end he began to see more and more include his mother, sometimes in the company of John but mostly alone, walking out of the Camelot to her car.

Ryan saw pictures dated from only a few days before, and he thought, with a sinking heart, of what Nancy had said. It didn't seem to be getting any better. He closed the drawer, looking around…there was another file cabinet against the wall. He felt almost like he was possessed; but he couldn't stop himself. He tore through everything, seeing names and dates…Ramsey's name was written on almost everything.

After the fury had calmed down a little, Ryan thought of two things: he wondered why none of these cabinets were locked, and he wondered what exactly incriminated John. Sure, the guy was kind of an asshole, but that didn't make him a murderer. He got his answer to this question the second he changed papers: there was a copy of an article that was printed (it was handwritten on the page) on April 22nd, 2006. He didn't have time to read it; he heard the phone ring, and quickly closed the cabinet door, running out of the room, paper in hand. He shoved it unceremoniously into his bag before picking up, breathless. He could hear George starting to yell.

And sure enough, the man himself came limping down, eyes flashing. "Ryan Evans, I did _not_ hire you to sit here and sleep whilst_ ignoring_ the calls that it is your_ only_ duty to answer!" Nodding furiously, Ryan tried to slow down his breathing. George narrowed his eyes; Ryan wished he could control the redness of his face. He wasn't exhausted by the journey from Nancy's office to his desk, but the panic and adrenaline mixed together were overwhelming him.

"At least I hope you were sleeping. There isn't anybody hiding under there, is there?" He jabbed his cane at the desk. The redness intensified about tenfold; Ryan thought he was about to turn into a tomato. "I didn't think so. Now straighten up and pay attention."

As soon as the man was out of earshot, Ryan let out a low moan, flopping forward onto his desk. Detective work was so overrated.

He was started to feel vaguely like a kleptomaniac. He ventured into Nancy's office every day, so used to being granted access to everything that he no longer questioned it. He saw the police reports of Sharpay's death, nothing new…but the more he looked at police reports, and suspect lists, the more he began to see things he hadn't. They all reported her time of death as being around 5 o'clock…and that didn't sound right.

The day she'd died, he'd been hanging out with Gabriella. They had gone to the mall. Ryan had gotten a call from Sharpay saying she was going to head down to Lava Springs to get a massage from Piero. She'd been feeling "extra stressed" lately, as she had put it. Ryan remembered that when he'd gotten the call, Gabriella had been trying on a dress in American Eagle, and he'd been waiting outside the store and could see the giant clock very clearly; It said 4:04. They had left at almost 5, and he'd gotten home to find that his sister still wasn't there. He'd called her again, and she told him she would be home in an hour, but he didn't have to wait. So he'd decided to go get himself some dinner.

He'd run into Kelsi at the restaurant; apparently, she had taken up a second job there. They'd gotten caught up, and it was six-thirty when he decided to head home.

Unable to find Sharpay in the house, he called her, only to find her cell phone in the kitchen unattended.

_Ryan frowned as he picked up the vibrating Sidekick, which displayed four missed calls, all from him. His sister rarely went anywhere without her phone, and she certainly never missed more than two calls in a row. Setting it down, he looked up, through the glass door that led to the backyard. _

_He was aware of something on the ground, a shape he couldn't discern. He slid open the door and stepped outside; he could tell it was his sister. Why was she on the ground? Was it another "tanning tip" she'd picked up? He called her name; no answer. Suddenly, he began to feel panic spreading through him; he tore by the side of the pool to stop in his tracks when he finally reached her. _

_His knees didn't feel the impact against the ground as he got down and proceeded to shake her, although he could clearly see the blood on her head and the way her eyes were blank and open. He shook her, muttering, no, no, no…_

She had still been a little warm. He remembered that; a little bit of life had still been in here when he found her. It was almost seven; she couldn't be like that if she'd been lying there for two hours.

He saw the list of suspects: among them, his parents, Dean, Zeke, and others whom Sharpay had loved in life. It hurt him a little to think of what she would say if she knew they were investigating everyone she'd loved and accusing them of killing her…

If she knew he was investigating, she'd probably be both proud and annoyed, as she always was. And in that special way she had, she would hide the "proud" part.

He had started to formally do it when he realized that all the thoughts he was having were too big for his head. He'd started to use his laptop as an outlet for it. Reformatting his desktop, he replaced the icons with file folders labeled with the names of the suspects…he'd added a few of his own to the list. In these folders, he'd typed up their alibis, as well as their connections to Sharpay…basically creating his own investigation files.

It didn't escape him that the alibis might not be able to hold up, in light of his recent thoughts about Sharpay's time of death. He needed solid proof that his sister had still been alive and well while he'd been out having dinner.

Sitting on his bed one day, he'd been going through the folders for about the fifth time. His eyes scanned the familiar information quickly; but something caught his attention. As he was going through Dean's file, he noticed that the alibi that was listed for him said he had been on a road trip with his friends (who had attested to it). He remembered that Dean and Sharpay had been arguing constantly before he left, and the announcement that he planned to leave without her only made things worse. His departure had been followed by Sharpay stubbornly ignoring his phone calls and making a point out of flirting as much as possible.

He closed the folder: he remembered how devastated Dean had been by his sister's death. He'd done his best to hide it manfully, of course, by choosing to pick on him instead.

"_Hey Ryan," Dean's voice reached his ears; the boy's yellow X-Terra had sped up to drive alongside him as he made his way down the parking lot to school. "My boys and I were thinking we'd rather skip than study today, you wanna come with?"_

_Ryan said nothing, not even looking his way. _

"_Aw, c'mon. How about if I throw in a little hooch, huh?" A small flask was dangled out the window in front of him. "If I remember correctly you seem to like the stuff." Another silence. Ryan wished they would just give up, but he knew he wouldn't be that lucky._

"_You used to be fun, man," Dean said, his voice laced with false disappointment. The X-Terra sped off, carrying its laughing occupants with it. _

It amazed Ryan how good of an actor Dean turned out to be. Now, mere months after his girlfriend's death, rumors were swirling that he'd been hooking up left and right.

At this precise moment, for instance, Ryan was watching him chat up a cheerleader sitting at his table for the first time. He saw the familiar gestures and mannerisms that Dean had used to entrance his sister, that he could see through from a mile away and yet they seemed to be fool-proof. Well, he didn't know much about girls anyway, so maybe he was missing something, because the only thing Dean rated in his mind was Psychotic Jackass.

"He's _cute_, isn't he?" Sarah's comment was only semi-sarcastic; she was looking where Ryan was looking, but with a dreamy expression on her face. Ryan tried not to make too much of an unpleasant face but he honestly could not believe she'd said that. He thought she was smarter than those vapid little tramps!

"If by cute you mean the essence of all evil, then yes. He's adorable." He muttered in response. Sarah didn't hear him. Rolling his eyes, he settled for a light poke to the shoulder with his fork; she turned her head, annoyed.

"On to more important things; how's the situation with your mother going?" He asked softly. Sarah's face tightened.

"Um, well…she's trying to get to my dad…but he just ignores her calls. He wouldn't let her come in the house." She lowered her eyes, which Ryan could see were shining with tears.

"Well, maybe that's a good thing. You said yourself she left you guys. Why would she want to come back unless she wanted something?" He said gently. He knew it was a little harsh, but it was the truth. Being rich taught you all about people, especially the ones who leeched off others. His father had lectured him and Sharpay about it, saying that once they saw the true nature of the person, it was better to cut them off entirely so they couldn't do any more damage.

"But she's my mom, Ryan." Tears began to roll down her cheeks, but Sarah ignored them. Her lips were quivering, and the hand that was holding her fork trembled; Ryan sighed. He hated that she had to go through this, but he had a pretty good idea of how it was going to end anyway.

"Your dad is the one that stood by you. You should stand by him too." He advised her, taking her hand. She withdrew it, burying her face in her arms. Ryan waited; a few seconds later, she raised her head, which was tearstained, but there were no more running down her face. She looked like she had calmed down.

"I don't know what to do, Ryan. How do I choose between my parents?" She asked mournfully. Ryan gave her a smile, which was not supposed to be as bitter as it was.

"Easy. The hero is the one that stays; the villain is the one that splits."

Since he'd dropped drama, Ryan found himself with an awful lot of time on his hands. His counselor had tried to get him to take up some other elective, but there was nothing of interest to him. It didn't matter that much anyway; he had almost enough extra-curricular activities credits. But she was a persistent woman; which was why, after lunch, he'd been summoned to her office during a study hall.

"How are you doing, Ryan?" She asked him. Could they _never _get anything done unless they asked that question first?

"I'm fine," he said flatly, crossing his arms. She nodded.

"Well, good. Now, I'm sure you know why you're here." Ah, the quintessential "conversation" dynamic. Ryan had had to sit through enough of that in the past few months to never, ever do it again. Or so he wished.

"Yes, I do," he replied, his tone sarcastic. Ms. Carver frowned slightly, but she said nothing. Thank God.

"Ryan, if you really don't want to talk about this, I'll make it brief." Ryan couldn't believe his ears. Straightening up in his chair, he stared, wide-eyed, at the young woman, who looked amused. "We're here to pick you out an elective."

"So, there aren't many choices left. Most of the classes are already full. But I did get some good news today." In counselor-land, it might be good news, but Ryan was almost sure that whatever it was, he would be forced to do something he really, really didn't want to do.

"There are several spots open for the Journalism class." She informed him. She was positively beaming; he could tell she had been sure he would jump at the offer. Sighing, he slumped again.

"I think Journalism would be great for you, Ryan. You're a talented writer, according to your English teachers," she insisted. Weren't counselors supposed to be objective? And when had she talked to his English teachers? Well, it was true that he did have a knack for writing, but the things he wrote about were a tad more personal and less factual than anything he would have to write for the school newspaper.

"I don't think I'd be good at writing non-fictional things," he protested. Ms. Carver smiled, undeterred.

"Well, I'm sure you'll get the hang of it, and if not, there are several other things you could do instead. A newspaper takes a lot of work." There was finality in the way she looked at him, the way pulled out the sheet that he would have to get signed by the Journalism teacher to signify that he was indeed switching into her class and placed it firmly in front of him, that muted any further arguments. It might have been a little dramatic, but Ryan imagined he was writing in his own blood.

"All right. Now just get that signed by Ms. Dent and get it back to me, okay? So we can make it official." He nodded, taking the accursed sheet and exiting the office.

The Journalism room was on the second floor; it was the largest room next to the gym and the pool area, with complete resources. He wondered whether someone he knew had dippd into their savings to provide for the room; but the second he entered the room, he saw something that made him really, really not care.

Dean was sitting at a computer, looking absorbed in whatever he was doing. Ryan somehow doubted it was whatever he had been assigned to do, unless he was trying his hardest to concentrate. Which was possible. The teacher's back was turned on him at the moment, as she was talking an article over with another student. Ryan contemplated turning and running, but Mrs. Dent chose that moment to turn around. She walked over to him, a sunny smile on her face. Ryan wondered whether it would be_ that_ rude to just rip the sheet out of her hands and bolt.

"Ah, you'll be joining us! Excellent!" She cried enthusiastically. Ryan did his best not cringe as he followed her in. The students had been startled by her exclamation and now most were trying to avoid looking at him. As he walked past Dean, he felt the boy's eyes bore into him. Oh, this was going to be a fun year.

Mrs. Dent, of course, told him that he would have to do some writing, but as Ms. Carver had said, there was a variety of other tasks he could do as well.

"We're a little short on photographers, actually," Mrs. Dent said as she strode (Mrs. Dent never walked; she strode, stalked or skipped, but she never _walked_) over to a cabinet labeled CAMERAS. Ryan felt a little intimidated by the things, with their huge lenses and…other things. He didn't know; the only cameras he had seen were palm-sized and had millions of little buttons, the functions of most of which would never become known to about half of its users.

"Now, I know it's intimidating, but don't worry. Cindy, our photography editor, will fill you in on the basics." She waved a hand at a dark-haired girl who was carefully examining some pictures laid out on the table in front of her. "Of course right now she's a bit busy, so we'll just move on." She placed the camera into his hands and flitted away before he could say another word. Shrugging, he slid it onto his neck and followed her.

"Pretty much all of our stories are in already, since the monthly comes out on Wednesday," Mrs. Dent informed him as they glanced over the mock-up of the next edition. "You came at a good time. All we need are a few pictures for sports, and we'll be set. Cindy!" At the sound of her name, the girl raised her head and got up, careful not to disturb the photos, and made her way over to them. Ryan recognized her; she was in his Calculus class. She seemed to make the connection too.

"Hey, Ryan," she said politely, with a smile. He returned it. Mrs. Dent clasped her hands together.

"All right, Cindy, why don't you take over here. I've got to go see what Ashley wants…" and with that, she went off again.

"So, Cindy…enlighten me." He said, raising the camera. "How the hell do I use this thing?"

Fifty minutes later, he came out of Journalism class with new knowledge; and, apparently, Dean at his tail. The older boy fell into step with him; Ryan could feel the grin that meant he was probably going to be subjected to some more simplistic verbal abuse spreading on Dean's face.

"So, did you have fun with that camera? Not too big to handle, is it?" He jeered.

"Do you go to the sexual innuendo or does the sexual innuendo come to you?" Ryan replied sardonically, speeding up. Unfortunately, Dean's legs were about a foot longer than his own, so the other boy didn't have to alter his speed in the slightest and they remained perfectly level. "Besides, I didn't know you could write."

"Yeah, well, other than Drama, it seemed to be the easiest thing I could take." The deliberate jab stung; Ryan was surprised by how much. He gritted his teeth.

"Oh, I'm sorry, that was pretty uncool of me, to insult your passion like that. Whatever happened to your acting, anyway? Not queer enough for you?" Ryan stopped walking, turning to Dean. He felt a burning behind his eyes that he thought might be angry tears, but there was nothing on his face, which was prickling with the heat that was making his hands shake and his teeth grind rather noisily.

"I guess I'll have to congratulate you, Dean." He said calmly. "You've officially been determined the world's biggest cockroach." He stalked past him, aware that several people were now following him with their eyes.

It took him a few minutes to return to a normal body temperature; he had to take deep, slow breaths, walk very slowly and not think about anything. It was times like these he thanked whoever was responsible for his mother's current obsession with anything to do with meditation, yoga, Pilates or anything related. Not that he had a terribly aggressive temper, or that he was prone to making rash decisions such as punching people in the face, but it made him feel a lot better to be able to control how he felt.

That was certainly a luxury he didn't know too much of. Just coming to this school every day was a tax on his emotions.

For an example of this sort of tax, Ryan found he did not have to look very far. After school, he'd quickly driven Sarah home, then come back to fulfill his duty---take pictures of the football team practicing. He arrived just in time; they were getting started when he arrived at the bleachers. By the time he was able to fish the camera out of his bag and get it ready to take actual pictures, they were really getting started, and Ryan found himself to be glad that there didn't seem to be anyone else around. He didn't want to think about what kind of idiocy someone would spout if they were to see him taking pictures of the football team.

He was undisturbed for a few minutes, and then, of course, not. He spotted a group of what he assumed to be jocks on the other end of the bleachers, who were too busy acting primitive to notice him as of yet. He could see, very clearly from where he was sitting, that someone had apparently brought a flask of alcohol with them. He watched as an unfamiliar boy grabbed it and took a swig, to the amusement of his friends. Ryan spotted Jason among them; he too was taking a sip from the flask. Sighing, he turned back to the field, where they had just begun…doing something. He wasn't that into football (at all), despite people's frequent assumptions that he watched it for the hot guys. Like there were no hot guys to be found anywhere except on a football field. Honestly.

Thankfully the assignment wouldn't take very long, because Ryan wasn't sure how long he could stand to sit there and listen to the slightly drunken singing of the boys on the other end. They were also starting to roughhouse a bit, which could only end badly. Ryan didn't really _want_ one of them to break something in their body, but if they insisted on being so annoying…

Finally, it was done. Packing up his camera, he slung his bag onto his shoulder and made his way down the bleachers; he saw Troy coming towards him as he walked in the direction of the parking lot.

"Hey, Ryan," the boy said, with a smile and a small wave. "How's it going?"

"Hello, Troy," Ryan replied. No need to be rude.

They passed each other, and then Ryan stopped as Troy called his name. Turning around, he saw Troy open his mouth, but all he heard was a loud crash and a chorus of "Oh my God!" Eyes widening, Ryan ran to the source of the noise, passing Troy who simply stood there, a little dumbfounded.

The one time that Ryan's will was heeded, it resulted in someone getting their head split open. What he saw when he ran back to the bleachers was a boy lying on the ground, a small pool of blood around his head, with a goofy grin on his face; meanwhile, his friends were watching and laughing from the top of the bleachers.

Troy had come to his senses and was looking around frantically for something to hold to the wound; he seemed to get a light bulb over his head and ran, where, Ryan didn't know. Probably the locker room.

Meanwhile, Ryan was trying to look the boy in the eyes; they kept opening and closing, but he was able to catch a glimpse. The pupils were very unfocused. Hopefully Troy's athleticism would be put to good use for once.

It took about a minute for him to return with a towel, which he helped Ryan get under the boy's head. "How you feeling, Nick?" Troy asked as he helped him stand. Nick simply groaned. Ryan couldn't blame him. Troy was pretty annoying.

"I gotta go, Ry, so I can't get him to a doctor. Would you mind---." Ryan shook his head. Troy smiled in appreciation. "Thanks. Nick's a friend of mine," he explained. Nodding, Ryan took one of Nick's arms and Troy took the other, and they headed to the parking lot.

It was a little awkward, having someone he barely knew in his car (and having to watch him so he didn't bleed on the front seat). But at least it was made a little better by the fact that Nick was dizzy, concussed and in pain, and so would probably not have noticed if he were riding on a camel.

He would have left after getting him to the clinic, if he had been sure he'd get a ride home. But just in case he stayed, waiting outside; he read an outdated magazine (_really_ outdated, by the looks of the clothes they were promoting) and looked around at the health-promoting posters. In half an hour, Nick came out, looking a lot more cognizant and with a smile on his face; Ryan wondered if he would recognize him. Well, considering there was no one else in the lobby…

"This is the young man who brought you in," the doctor informed Nick helpfully. Nodding appreciatively, Nick went over to Ryan, who gave his best encouraging smile.

"Hey, Ryan," Nick said. He was actually friendly; Ryan found he wasn't loath to shake his hand. "Thanks a lot for this, man."

"It's no problem, really," Ryan said, smiling. He couldn't help wondering if maybe Nick had hit his head a little too hard; wasn't this guy friends with Troy? And by default, wouldn't that make him anti-Ryan?

"I'm gonna owe you for this, you know. You probably saved my life." Apparently not.

"I'll hold you to that," Ryan said jokingly as they walked out to the car.

As soon as he'd put the address of the destination into his GPS, they were off. There was a silence, but it wasn't awkward. Ryan thought it very strange; what on Earth was going on here? Was this guy some kind of alien? He looked over at Nick; he was staring out the window, looking distracted.

Neither of them said anything for the whole ride. Finally, Ryan reached the address of Nick's house, and the other boy blinked tiredly, realizing he had to get out. He opened the door and got out, but then turned back to him.

"So, I'll see you at school, I guess." Nick said, shuffling his feet.

"Yeah. Take care of those stitches." Ryan replied. Nick smiled, closing the door. Ryan waited until he was inside before driving away.

He'd gotten a call from Troy asking how his friend was, and to his amusement Troy told him that he "owed him one". He should start writing these down, they certainly seemed to be adding up. When he was hanging up, he happened to get a look at the time; he was almost an hour late to work. George was going to have some kind of spasm. Stepping on the gas, he willed his car not to fail him.

When he finally made it in, he saw all three of the private investigators in the front lobby, and it didn't help his nervousness. They were all talking to each other, but when they noticed him he had three sets of eyes staring hard at him. He tried not to fidget.

"I'm assuming there was some sort of emergency?" George asked. He wasn't as vindictive as he had been last Friday, but Ryan could tell he was displeased.

"Yeah, there actually was." Even though he was telling the truth, he was afraid to speak. He wished they would all stop staring. "I had to drive someone to see a doctor."

"Well then," George relented, but he was still a little suspicious. "Get to work." Ryan noticed that there was a particularly large pile of papers on his desk today; and yet, neither Keith nor Nancy moved as George went away. The former simply scoffed over the top of his coffee cup.

"What _really_ happened, kid?" He asked. Ryan glared at him.

"I drove a guy to a clinic because he fell off the bleachers and hurt his head." That certainly shut Keith up; he slunk away, taking a sip of the coffee as he walked.

"I'm assuming this guy wasn't a poster boy for sobriety?" Nancy asked, raising an eyebrow. Ryan shook his head. "Teenagers. Anyway, you'd better get to work. Lots to do." She nodded at the papers before disappearing into her own office.

As it turned out, most of the things he had to file were boring case reports. He read them anyway, because he was curious, but all he saw were a bunch of dysfunctional families and apparently melodramatic children; maybe some credit card fraud, a missing possession or something. He was down to the last few files when he turned to one that involved a girl trying to find her mother. Apparently she had been two states away, trying to avoid all contact with her family. He remembered what he'd said to Sarah earlier that day: _the villain is the one that splits_.

What if things got bad enough that his mother had to leave? Would she be the villain? It was hard to imagine that he could ever feel like that towards his mother. Or his father, for that matter; _then why have you been doing your best not to talk to them for two weeks_? His subconscious asked him.

He didn't hate his parents. He really didn't. He just couldn't stand to be around them. He was sure they felt the same way about him, to some extent; after all, what was worse than seeing your dead daughter's twin alive and walking? He didn't blame them. They didn't know how to fix this, how to piece their lives back together. His father was trying, but it wasn't working. If anything it was just driving them further apart. His parents didn't speak to each other any more and they were just three people living in the same house.

That was why it wasn't bad or wrong to be looking through his father's things and even taking some of them. Because he could use these things to do good. He took evidence reports and he took information on the suspects….he took the pictures that his father had kept from the crime scene, and of Sharpay's bedroom the night of her death. It was wrinkled as if it had been looked at over and over again. Ryan was almost methodical in the way that he flipped through the documents, reading page after page about what they had said about his sister, the autopsy report, the cause of death (severe head trauma)…finally, he stopped and took a deep breath.

It was hard to believe how much his father had been keeping from him. He knew his parents would never have let him see this stuff even if they didn't have some sort of secret they were keeping, but he found himself getting slowly obsessed. He had to find more; he had to see more information. He had to know who had killed his sister.

It was all because he loved Sharpay. Maybe if he hadn't, he would have been able to let this go. But as it was, he was trying to make his way out of his father's room as quietly as possible, locking the door behind him after making sure that what was on the desk had been the same way it was before so that his father wouldn't be inclined to check _inside_ the desk.

His parents' bedroom stood diagonally from the office; to get to it, you had to go into a little nook off the hall. The door to their room was seldom closed, as the maids were in and out all day (getting laundry, cleaning, making beds, etc). Now it stood wide open and Ryan, looking hurriedly around him, went inside.

He remembered the last time he'd been in here. He and Sharpay had been adventurous children, who were constantly on a mission to see the most elusive rooms in their houses; well, eventually, their mission into their parents' room had cost them a broken knick-knack which was subsequently pinned on him. Fortunately his parents were in the stage where they had caught on to Sharpay's tendency to put the blame on her brother and both were equally punished; from that day forward, both regarded the room as a Forbidden City.

But he wasn't seven anymore, and the only thing he felt upon entering was how soft the carpet was. It was like cotton under his feet, almost squishy. For a minute or two he looked around the room, seeing all the differences between its current state and the one it had had a decade ago. For one thing, the décor had been completely refurnished, and there were more photos of the family. Everything was lush and grand, of course. He couldn't help being a bit awed.

He began to walk around the room, since he didn't exactly know where to start. He examined the walls carefully, looking for evidence of a hidey-hole. There was a small paitning hanging over the bed which was incongruous with the rest; it was of a flowerpot filled with lilies. His mother's favorite flower; maybe it had been a gift? Either way, it couldn't hurt to look. So he climbed up onto the bed (carefully) and stood up, lifting the painting by its frame; there was nothing but wall under it. Disappointed, he put it back in place, but then noticed something else; he was standing at the right level to be able to see clearly into the ventilator, and he wasn't sure but it looked like there was something in there…

"Ryan?" His dancer's grace left him in his astonishment; he flopped uselessly before finally losing his balance and toppling off the bed, onto the ground (which was not as soft as it looked or felt under his feet). His mother's blonde head appeared above him, both angry and confused. "What on Earth are you doing in here?"

"Oh, you know," he shrugged. "Childhood memories."

"You didn't jump on the bed even as a child, Ryan. We scared you into avoiding it." His mother countered. Ryan stood up, smiling sheepishly.

"I haven't been in here in ages. Well, that was nice. Gotta go." He said, turning to leave. His mother's perfectly manicured hand on his shoulder felt rather ominous; a chill went down his spine. And she wouldn't let go, either.

"Why don't you tell me why you were _really_ in here, Ryan?" The softness of her voice was also not a good sign. Chances were she probably knew the answer and was trying to make herself think otherwise.

"I don't---." His capability of speech left him in that moment, because his mother walked away from him, climbed onto the bed and (bending down to take a mini screwdriver off her night table) proceeded to unscrew the ventilator cover and pull out whatever was in it. She climbed down and looked at him, holding what looked to be photographs. Her eyes were filled with tears and she looked positively miserable.

"Ryan…what do you think of me right now?" She asked him, her voice surprisingly steady.

"What do you mean?" He really couldn't understand.

"Ryan, sweetheart," she moved forward to grab his shoulders, looking into his eyes. "I know there has to be something."

It took awhile to get up the strength to say what he had in mind, and it was still rather hesitant. "I don't understand, Mom. What are you doing? Why are you doing these things?" He knew that she had already heard these words in her head; she closed her eyes, looking as though she were in pain. Ryan walked over to her, hugging her gently. She felt so small in his arms. He looked down at the pictures in her hands and, carefully, pried them from her unwilling fingers.

His mother's quiet sobs were the only sound in the room as he flipped them over; and then he felt his heart going a mile a minute.

It was him in the pictures. Not her, not John Ramsey, not Sharpay. Him, doing various things, sitting in cafes, or at school. But what made these pictures the last thing he ever expected to see were the bulls-eyes drawn around his face, in every single one.


	11. Pieces of the Puzzle

A/N: Hi all! Sorry for the wait.

In this chapter we will find out the story behind those pictures (sort of…I'm sorry! I'm sorry! But you'll know everything soon enough, trust me!), and much more besides. Enjoy.

CHAPTER NINE

He was still staring at the pictures when they were snatched out of his hand, and then it took him awhile to look up from the empty air. His mother was looking at the pictures with a mixture of hatred and extreme pain; she threw them down then collapsed onto the bed, burying her face in her hands. Tears streamed down her face; Ryan rushed to her and held her hands, unable to say anything because he felt so numb. What could one say in a situation like this?

"I'm so sorry," Elaine Evans' usually bright and confident voice was reduced to a quiet, broken whisper; Ryan tightened his grip on her hands. "I'm so sorry, Ryan."

"Sorry for what?" Ryan asked. He knew it would have been better not to ask, but he was curious and he couldn't restrain it.

She looked up, her eyes large and watery. "Oh, God, where do I start?" She asked bitterly, wiping at her eyes.

"Ryan, do you know who took those pictures of you?" He shook his head slowly, not taking his eyes off her. She nodded as if that was what she had been expecting.

_Ben was late, again. Elaine huffed impatiently, tapping the sole of her new slingbacks against the ground (gently, of course; wouldn't want to scuff). She wouldn't have had to wait here ordinarily, but her own car was in the shop, and Ben had promised he would pick her up. He had been gone for the whole day, doing negotiations over at another one of his partners' offices. _

_Elaine couldn't wait to tell him the progress they had made today; things had been moving slowly in the office for the past couple of months, but they seemed to positively drag whenever he was around. She knew it was an awful thing, seeing as he was the owner of the company, but his focus was not on his work. She certainly knew where it was, instead, and it made her angry. _

_She missed her daughter terribly. But it was not beyond her that they still had a son, a son who was living and breathing and depended on them for his livelihood. They still had a business which did nothing without their absolute approval, and would surely falter without their constant attention. He still had a marriage and a house and a car and all these things, but he seemed to care more about what he didn't have. _

_Another ten minutes, and she'd had enough of enough. Julia answered the phone when she called the house, and after telling her that Senor was not there, passed it upon her request to Emile. Elaine could not have thanked him enough when he agreed to come after her, and he was there in less than seven minutes. _

_Finally, she was home. After a few more extraneous thank yous, she got out of the car (she had instructed him to take Ben's newest BMW) and trotted to the front door, painfully. The new slingbacks were not as glamorous as they had looked on the display in Prada. _

"_Your mail, Senora," A young maid, one of the newer ones (Raquel? Rosa?), informed her as she walked past, gesturing towards the small table that stood in the hall below the mirror. _

"_Thank you, dear," she responded wearily, making her way over to the indicated area. There was quite a pileup; she picked it up and started sorting through. Bill, catalog, newspaper, magazine, TV Guide, letter from Mother, and---a yellow envelope?_

_It was larger than the others, and there was no return address. Brow furrowing (as she recalled all the movies she had watched in which no return address was generally a bad sign), she noted that it was addressed to her husband, but she was sure he wouldn't mind too much, especially under the circumstances. _

_Tearing the top off the envelope carefully, she pulled out whatever was inside; she barely heard the thud that her purse made when it hit the ground. Who could have sent these pictures to them? Who would do such a thing? Immersed in her panic, she looked around to see if anyone was watching; there were a few maids in the vicinity but they were otherwise engaged. She had to think; where could she put the photos?_

_And then it struck her. She remembered her school days, when she had to hide everything from her parents and had to devise a safe place to put the things that she never wanted them to see. She kicked off her shoes and ran upstairs, trying to make as little noise as possible._

"You hid them in the vent?" Ryan asked her incredulously. It was hard to believe that his mother, who had always seemed so calm and sure of herself, would resort to such teenager-ish measures to keep something a secret. He supposed most instincts could be regarded as teenagerish.

Elaine had left out several details in her telling of the story. Ryan didn't need to hear everything, and he certainly didn't need to know what she had thought about his father. But he seemed to be affected enough _without _those details.

"It was the only place I could think of that your father wouldn't look," she explained, grateful that her tears seemed to be stopping; but she couldn't stop shaking.

"Why wouldn't you want Dad to see?" He asked, sounding genuinely confused. Elaine sighed.

It was a good question. But wild horses couldn't drag the answers out of her. They were buried nice and deep, where she and everyone else couldn't get to them, and that's where they would stay. At least, that's what she'd hoped, but she could have sworn she had felt herself come to a screeching halt when she saw her son standing on her bed, reaching for the air vent's cover.

She'd known it was over. She knew, now, that it was over, that there would be no turning back, and that all she could do now was wait. She'd tried to change things, and it had only made them worse. Funny how that happened, even to people with the purest of intentions. Well, there would be no more of that; as her yoga instructor had taught her, peace and serenity were the way to go.

If only she'd brought that up months before, so that the first thing that went through Elaine's mind when she saw that envelope had been: peace and tranquility. If only she'd realized that she was doing the complete opposite of what she'd always sworn by, but things one swore by tended to be changed around according to their lives. That was one thing she had learned in her years as a businesswoman.

"_Darling, are you all right? You're jittery; is it cold? Should I ask Henri to turn up the heat?" Ben asked anxiously, looking up from his meal. Elaine shook her head, willing herself to steady the grip on her fork._

_Every time she closed her eyes she saw the pictures. They were haunting her, chilling her spine like the unpleasant image of a gory display. But to her, to a mother, they were much worse. She wondered how she would be able to sleep, feeling like there were a ten thousand ton weight in the air duct above her head. _

"_Excuse me, miss," Ben stopped a passing waiter; Elaine didn't hear what he said to her, but a few moments later she found a pot of steaming jasmine tea sitting on the table in front of her. Obligingly, she smiled and poured a cup, taking a sip. She welcomed the burn._

"_Just the way I like it," she said, with a bright smile. Ben looked pleased; his attention turned back to his meal. _

That night, she slept less than she had ever slept in her life.

Ryan didn't know quite what to say. He figured that happened when you were confronted with pictures that clearly indicated someone's ill wishes toward you, but this particular situation was so complicated that he couldn't even begin to untangle the web that was becoming clearer and clearer by the second.

So his father didn't know about these pictures. It was obvious that he didn't, because Ryan was allowed to leave the house without an armed escort. He probably had other suspicions about what was plaguing his family.

And it seemed like that was for the best. Ryan couldn't imagine what had driven Ramsey (for, considering the circumstances, he could reasonably guess that was who had sent his mother the pictures) to do something like this to a man who was grieving for a lost daughter. Was he really that big of an asshole, or was something else going on?

It had to be the latter. His mother's continual visits to the Camelot---they had to be related to this. He understood now, and a horrible guilt came over him as he realized what he had been thinking of his poor mother, who'd had to bear such a terrible weight. She had been trying to save her husband from himself and spare him, her son, from living a life of fear. And it had backfired. If only things could be simple, if you could get a clear-cut list of consequences of things before you did them, or you could make it so your actions had no consequences, detach things from one another. Like a ball of yarn, undoing each separate string and laying them side by side so that they didn't touch each other.

But in this world, things didn't happen that way. Each time you did something, the separate strings moved closer to each other, overlapping until what you got was a complicated mess that would take years and years to unravel.

His mother had gone quiet, staring at her hands as if she'd never seen them before. Ryan felt it was the right time to leave, closing the door behind him, and then remembered what he was holding. He didn't think she'd want them back anyway; retreating back to his room, he quietly tucked them away into a drawer.

As the weather got colder, Ryan found he was unable to escape the speculation over whether basketball season would suck or not. Troy's hand was still healing, and it would be November before the stitches could be removed, but he had full use of it. This led to detailed arguments over medical issues, and Ryan wondered vaguely if it was sad that he was the only person in the school (besides Sarah) who really had a life.

Apparently not. People seemed perfectly content in their world, not realizing the unhealthy connotations of hero-worshipping a basketball player. For once, he saw what Sharpay had been harping on constantly during her high school years---the fact that sports hero-worship was seen as "cool", while _their _appreciation of fine arts was cast off as "freakish".

He was trying to work out if he still _had_ an appreciation of fine arts. It seemed to him like this year's winter musical might be a little low-calibre, thanks to all the eager little freshmen who had signed up. Not all of them had been accepted, of course (Mrs. Darbus was nothing if not vicious when it came to amateurism), but even so, it would seem a little off. Walking by the auditorium sometimes, he felt a strange urge to enter and jump up on stage, where he was supposed to be, according to a little voice in his head that had come in unannounced and refused to pay rent.

Sarah had asked him about his years as a drama buff, and he'd been content to tell her about their performances in the past, but she hesitated when it came to this year. She'd gotten the idea when he had walked out of the dressing room so abruptly, and had said nothing about it. But she did occasionally speak of what transpired at rehearsals, telling him about the time when a lamp had actually fallen out of the grid and nearly squished Meg Manning and how she thought that only happened in books and movies; telling him how Mrs. Darbus had chewed Duncan Green out for not having memorized a three-word line; telling him how as they painted the sets, they had all the time in the world to gossip.

He'd never painted a set a day in his life, but he did remember the gossip. It was amazing, but they somehow always managed to find time to talk in between running scenes; particularly if Mrs. Darbus was on the verge of a breakdown because she was so lost on what to do and the hopelessness of it all…

Hearing Sarah talk about it from the perspective of the people who giggled at the plight of the actors was…entertaining. It brought things back, sometimes things that he didn't want to bring back (such as the time after the opening night of _Guys and Dolls_, when he'd been followed to the dressing room by an old boyfriend, Aaron, who refused to leave until Sharpay screamed so loudly Ryan had thought his eardrums were going to burst and then pointedly slammed the door in his face. That was the end of Aaron, needless to say.), and sometimes things that he had to do his best to stifle or he would find the backs of his eyes prickling uncomfortably and his throat feeling drier than a desert all of a sudden.

But winter loomed nearer, and Ryan found that Sarah was very excited about her involvement in the show, so he would let her talk. He tuned out whenever he thought something he didn't want to hear would come up, but for the most part he found himself nodding and smiling.

It was confusing. Sarah was perfectly cheery, sometimes even downright giddy, and yet as far as he knew, problems didn't just go away. Not even if you asked nicely. So where had hers gone?

Yet another question; and here he was hoping there wasn't room for any more. Unfortunately, the list only seemed to be getting longer, and he seemed to have more than enough time to mull it over.

He was still working in George's office, but he was almost 100 percent sure that was a mere technicality. Nobody talked to him---ever---and he had maybe three or four things to file in a day. He had been reduced to phone-answerer.

One day, he had actually been given a pile of things to shred. They were old case files that were cluttering up the various desks in the office. He felt ridiculous standing there in the hall and feeding the papers into the shredder, but every time he tried to protest he found he was ignored. Scowling, he continued his work. His eyes were drawn (almost of their own accord) constantly to Nancy's office, which he knew was empty; and yet, if he moved an inch out of the designating shredding zone, George would be on him like a lynx. So, patiently, he disposed of the rest of the documents and watched carefully to see any activity on George's part---his prayers were answered as the man got up and closed the door firmly. Ryan could hardly believe his luck; his feet moved almost automatically towards the door, the open door, which was only inches away…

"Ryan?"

He had had to act scared several times in his experience as an actor; but he didn't think anything quite compared to feeling like your heart was going to explode, it was going so fast, and your face felt like it was going to burn off, and he was forced to wonder if spontaneous combustion was really as impossible as they thought it was.

Once his vision had cleared, he saw Nancy watching him curiously. He felt a nervous grin spreading on his face; as he tried to think of something, anything, to say, the sound of his cell phone's melodious ring interrupted his thoughts. Without excusing himself, he dashed back to his desk and began to tear through his things in search of the phone. If he missed the call, he would miss a chance to put off his explanation…thankfully, it was hard to miss the red light flashing; grabbing the phone, he ignored the wave of papers that fell out after it, opening it and greeting whoever it was breathlessly.

"Ryan! What's up?" Sarah's bubbly voice reached his ears, and it sounded like the most beautiful thing he'd heard in awhile.

"I'm at work, Sarah," he pointed out on instinct, and then realized his mistake. "But it's okay, I'm not busy," he added hurriedly.

"Oh. That sucks; you must be so bored." Sarah said, sighing.

"You're talking to me, so I'm assuming you're not at rehearsal. What happened?" Ryan asked casually; Nancy had disappeared into her office. He let out a relieved breath.

"Oh, Mrs. Darbus cancelled. Can you believe it?" She asked, excited.

No, he really couldn't. It wasn't like he had never had a rehearsal cancelled before, but Mrs. Darbus was practically machine. It took a lot for her to concede defeat. "Why did she cancel? Did she say?"

"No. It was weird. But whatever, it's nice to have some free time," Sarah said dismissively. "I have a ton of homework. And I'd better get started on it; so I'll talk to you later, Ry."

"Yeah, alright. Bye, Sarah," he said dejectedly. She hung up; he held the phone to his ear for a few more seconds, than took it away, closing it. Nancy's door was still closed.

He reached down, groaning in annoyance when he saw the mess that had been made by his frantic search for his cell phone. He started stuffing things back into his bag; he wished he'd taken the time to organize his homework, but now he'd have to go through everything. Picking up a few of the papers, he started to rifle through them, trying to find his Biology worksheet. But he'd only gotten through one when he found himself staring at a 36-inch headline that caught his eye immediately, if only for the use of one word:

RAMSEY.

It was the article he'd found in Nancy's office, but had forgotten about completely. He noted the date---April 22, 2006.

He'd taken the article simply because Ramsey's name had been mentioned. The newspaper clearly knew how to do their job, and as he skimmed over the contents he realized that it had been a good thing.

_John Ramsey, owner and founder of Ramsey Enterprises, has recently told reporters that he is "extremely offended" by Bernard Evans' financial snub._

_Evans, who has been partners with Ramsey since June 2004, has broken off an agreement due to circumstances that he is as yet refusing to comment on._

"_It's nothing personal, just business. I thought John of all people would understand that," he said._

Well, there it was, laid out quite literally in black and white. John Ramsey had clearly been irritated by his father for some reason, two months before Sharpay had died. But what did that mean? He shuddered as images of John striking his sister with the object that had killed her—a heavy ashtray—filled his mind. It didn't seem right to him; he barely knew the man, but it took a lot to be able to envision someone as a murderer, who killed in cold blood.

Pulling out his laptop, he created a new folder: he typed in the name carefully. _John Ramsey._

_Alibi: None. _

Ramsey wasn't a suspect. At least, not officially. There was no evidence showing that it would have been impossible for him to have murdered Sharpay because he was out somewhere kicking puppies, or something. Then again, nobody else on the list had an alibi anymore either, since the time of death was off.

He wondered how it was possible that such an error could have been made. He suspected it wasn't an error, but a deliberate slipup, and he knew it could probably be traced back to his father. His parents would have never let something like that go unless they wanted to. But what significance could five o'clock have had?

Then he remembered: his mother had called him at five o'clock as he and Gabriella had been driving home. She'd asked him where he was, what he was doing, etc. She'd told him she didn't know when they would be home. He'd said he was driving.

He couldn't believe it. His heart sank as the thought came to him; had his parents set it up to eliminate the possibility that he had killed Sharpay? He supposed he would naturally be one of the suspects...but why? Anybody who knew him knew he couldn't have killed his sister even if he hadn't been somewhere else at the time when she supposedly died. Did his parents know that? Maybe they didn't. His head started to hurt; he closed the laptop, setting it aside, and rested his head in his arms at his desk.

Winter was only a month away, and there began to be talk about the winter dance among the students of East High. Already, people were discussing who they would ask, what the theme would be, what kind of music they would have, and for some, what their after-dance plans were.

There was also a notable upswing in Sarah's work schedule. Mrs. Darbus had them working all hours—well, as many as were allowed by the state—and Ryan found the majority of her talk was concerned with the show and how as opening night drew nearer, all the amateurs were practically pissing themselves with anxiety. One freshman girl actually had a panic attack and had to excuse herself. Ryan smiled when he pictured Mrs. Darbus' exasperation. He remembered how it had been when they were a month away from opening night.

Tensions had been high, and Sharpay had been positively deranged with the double pressures of the play and the dance weighing on her. In between dragging him to find the perfect dress and chewing out fellow cast members for the slightest faults, she would be backstage, meditating quietly. It was the only thing that would keep her from completely flipping out, and so even Mrs. Darbus had to consent to her getting a few minutes off for a break every now and then.

Only one person had truly objected, although her protests had changed nothing. Sylvia Goodman, who was the other lead role in the play, would look on with disdain and irritation whenever she saw Sharpay disappear behind the curtains. It was a silent loathing; Sharpay never paid enough attention to her to notice.

But now, Sylvia Goodman was walking around school like Christmas was coming early, a spring in her step and a smile that almost looked smug on her face. She was surrounded by a group of what Ryan assumed were fellow actors, forming a protective shell around her. They went everywhere she went, and as he stood at his locker in the hall, he saw her pushing her way through the thong of students, walking slowly as if to preserve the effect of her presence. He turned away as she passed, but when he looked up he saw that she was looking back at him. As she quickly evaded his gaze, he felt Sarah chuckling quietly behind him.

"Geez. Now I know why they're called drama queens. I felt like I was watching something in slo-mo." She giggled, leaning against the lockers as she waited for him.

"Sylvia likes to keep people entertained," Ryan commented as he shoved his English binder into his bag. He started walking, Sarah bouncing along beside him.

"And apparently she thinks she's great at it. She never stops talking about herself." Sarah added.

It was true. Even when she'd only been second-rate, Sylvia had had a passion for sharing her talents with the world, even if the world did all it could to make it clear to her that it did not care.

"Yeah. One of these days I'm hoping she'll be so caught up she'll forget to breathe, and that'll be the end of_ that_ problem," Ryan said. "Anyway, this is my stop. I'll see you at lunch," he told her. Nodding, she continued down the hall, taking a left and vanishing from sight. Ryan walked into his English class; he was one of the first ones there. His teacher hadn't even shown up yet; he sank into a chair and laid his head on his arms, closing his eyes. If he could only get a few minutes…

"Ryan? Ryan _Evans_." It felt like only a few seconds, but when Ryan raised his head to meet the stern eyes of his teacher, he realized that class was in full swing. His teacher looked fairly annoyed.

"Pope. _An Essay on Man._ Epistle I." He blinked, not understanding what she meant, but then vaguely recalled the reading he'd done for homework last night.

"Hope springs eternal in the human breast; Man never Is, but always To be blest:  
The soul, uneasy and confin'd from home, Rests and expatiates in a life to come." He recited tiredly.

"And what do you suppose he meant by that?" The question was inevitable. Especially in an AP English class.

"Life's a bitch until you die," Ryan answered curtly. Ms. Dunn looked surprised, but recovered herself quickly. A few of his classmates' chuckles reached his ears.

"Thank you, Mr. Evans, for that succinct and someone inappropriate response." She continued on with something else, but Ryan had already laid his head back down.

Biology had once been borderline tolerable—tipping the scales, of course, but still borderline tolerable—but as soon as the most popular boy in the grade had reached martyrdom by receiving a moderately serious injury, it had all gone downhill. Now it was 'help Troy do this' and 'Troy, be careful doing that', and it saddened him to think that not even respectable adults were immune to the viral attraction that Troy Bolton seemed to have in spades.

The fateful dissection had been their only one to date: now it was looking through microscopes and doing minor labs. Ryan was grateful; when he got home after the dissection he'd found a small bloodstain on his jeans, which he'd promptly thrown into the wash. He was slightly reluctant to wear them now.

Journalism was becoming one of his favorite classes. Mrs. Dent was often busy going from student to student, so she didn't have much time to dwell on whether you were keeping yourself busy or not. He mostly sat at the computer, looking at the layout for the next issue and helping Cindy sort out photographs. She'd complimented him on the football pictures; Ryan had looked up to see that Logan was sitting out of earshot, reading something over at a table.

For the most part, they managed not to interact. Sometimes Mrs. Dent would inadvertently make them cross paths, whereupon Logan started in on his traditional being-a-jackass.

It wasn't like it was news to him that Logan was a jerk. When he had been dating Sharpay, he had kept quiet about it because he knew Sharpay would tear him a new one if he talked to Ryan the way he really wanted to. But now there was nothing distracting him from his apparent desire to make him suffer, and it seemed to be a more pointed hatred. It was like he couldn't stand to let Ryan be around him without making him suffer. Maybe it was because he missed Sharpay. Ryan had seen first-hand what Logan had felt at his girlfriend's death; he knew Logan was hurting just as much as he was. It was good to be able to think that.

Sarah always had Math before lunch, and her math teacher liked to keep them in a few extra minutes. So Ryan bought his lunch and sat down at their usual table, busying himself by trying to identify what he was going to be eating. Suddenly, a strong smell of perfume reached his nose, and for one wild moment he looked up expecting to see Sharpay.

But no, of course. What he saw instead was Sylvia Goodman, with her hair that was long and brown and her eyes that were cold and blue. She was nothing like Sharpay. She had probably only started wearing that perfume because Sharpay used to wear it. Ryan berated himself inwardly, and didn't notice that the perfume smell was getting closer until he found he was feeling a little nauseous.

Sylvia had sat down in front of him, watching him, her eyes laughing. He looked up at her, glaring. The smell was burning his nostrils.

"I need you to help me." Sylvia said plainly. He stared at her, incredulous.

"You need me to help you? With what?" He asked. Why was he even asking? Did he care?

"I want you to find out who's harassing me."

"Sylvia, look around." He gestured around the cafeteria. "There is nobody in this room that wouldn't take pleasure out of harassing you, myself included."

"Hmm." Sylvia smiled sweetly. "As much as I enjoy conversations with bitter rejects, I have things to do. So are you going to do it or not?"

Ryan set down his fork, a smile spreading on his face. "You know what, Sylvia? I will help you."

"Good." The expression on her face told Ryan he had probably made the right choice. "So how does 500 sound?" She asked, reaching for her purse. Ryan had a temporary crisis of conscience; he didn't really need to take the money, but he suspected that it would be more than deserved if he had to work with this girl.

"It sounds fine." He said, forcing a genuine smile.

"A-hem." Sarah was standing behind Sylvia, silently asking Ryan (using very drastic gestures) what in the hell she was doing sitting there. Standing up, Sylvia glanced disdainfully at her before turning back to him.

"We'll finish this later." And with that, she strode off majestically.

"Am I missing something?" Sarah asked, sitting down in the seat across from him. "Because that girl looked an awful lot like Sylvia Goodman, and yet I could swear I heard you said you'd help her." She was looking at him with a very disappointed expression.

"I did." He said. She pulled a face at him. "What? She's giving me money, and I really do want to know who's harassing her so I can congratulate them." He said defensively. Sarah rolled her eyes.

"If you say so." She stabbed at her own lunch vindictively.

"So how was math?" He asked idly. She glared at him.


End file.
